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Thoughts From 
Nature's Heart 

By HARRIET TRIELOFF SCHELIN 



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THOUGHTS 

FROM 

NATURE'S HEART 

BY 
HARRIET TRIELOFF SCHELIN 



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COPYRIGHT. 1922, BY GIDEON SCHELIN 



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And I love to look and to ponder 

On the little I .see and hear : 
To know it's a part of God's great plan 

To bring nature and man more near. 

"Behind the Window." 



*A PRAYER 

Wilt Thou lead me, gentle Father, 
Lead me where I ought to go? 

With my hand in Thine, dear Father, 
Let me never weary grow 
Of the living and the giving 
Of thy Love's eternal flow. 

Wilt Thou watch me, gentle Father, 
Watch my nature's deepest bent? 

That, looking in Thy Face, dear Father, 
I may see Thy whole consent, 
And my hurry and my worry 
May be lost in sweet content. 

Wilt thou guide me, gentle Father, 
Guide me as Thou seest best? 

To Thy love crowned home, dear Father, 
In the mansions of the Blest, 
Where all moaning and all groaning 
Shall be hushed in peace and rest. 

Wilt Thou shield me, gentle Father, 

Shield me from earth's sin and shame, 

Shield me with Thy love, dear Father, 
In the dear Redeemer's name? 
That His sighing and His dying 
May not seem to be in vain. 

Wilt Thou teach me, gentle Father, 
Teach me how to DO and BE? 
That I may at length, dear Father 

A faint reflection prove of Thee. 
And my teaching and outreaching 
May bring others home to Thee. 
Oct., 1908 

*See Page 126 for Revision. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



1 Tribute — Helene Hoffman Cole 

2 Twilight Reflections — Anna M. Trieloff 1 

3 The Presence — Gideon Schelin 2 

4 Introduction — Alma J. Trieloff 3 

5 Poems 5 

6 Prose 134 

7 Index to Titles 189 

8 Index to First Lines 193 



HARRIET TRIELOFF SCHELIN 

On the second of January the sweet muse of 
Harriet Trieloff Schelin was forever stilled. As 
Mrs. Gideon Schelin, she is unknown to amateur 
journalism, but many of the members will remem- 
ber the poetry of Harriet Trieloff, sweet with a 
strength of soul that breathed of the vast out- 
doors. It was fresh, clear-eyed strength that per- 
meated Harriet Trieloff both as poet and friend. 
Her poetry was full of the Minnesota forest land 
because she loved it so, and it was up there, close 
to nature, that her bright flame went out. Al- 
though she had been inactive since the days of the 
Scriptores she had promised lately that she would 
return to active membership, and now her friends 
can only mourn her. 

HELENE H. COLE. 



TWILIGHT REFLECTIONS 

Far in the West, the sun is sinking 

Into a Quiet calm; 
Deep in my soul, near thots are linking 

Me to you, with soft'ning balm. 

Far in the West, the faintly fading 

Sun does find its rest; 
So does my Spirit — sweet mem'ries aiding — 

Find yours, in union blest. 

Far down the years, oh dearly loved one, 

Your life, like the ling , ring ray, 
Will aye shine forth, and in purest reflection 

To our Home, will point the way. 

Far seems that Home, yet while thinking 

Dear sister, of you — it nears; 
As the deep'ning shadows are linking 

Me to you, in the falling tears. 

South Haven, 1, 18, '19 —A. M. T. 



THE PRESENCE 

The fading rays of the sunset are tinting 

The treetops in gold 'midst their glimmering green. 

Calmly the lake is reflecting the message 

Of the sunset's glories in beauteous sheen. 

Hushed is the whisper of leaves in the treetops, 
Stilled is the twitter of birds on their limbs, 
Softly the silence of evening enwraps all 
As nature in stillness of prayer to God hymns. 

As in the gloaming I sit all enraptured, 
In the beauties of nature in prayerful repose, 
Peaceful the Presence that comes to enfold me 
In the One-ness which Love divine only bestows. 

In this One-ness of Life where death never enters, 
Love's character lives and Her Presence imparts 
To all whose lives are to Truth consecrated, 
Who seek Her in pureness of Mind and of heart. 

My loved one's not gone, she dwells in The Presence, 

Soothing and cheering me on my lone way. 

In the holy hush of these evening reveries 

She guides me to Truth thru Love's leavening rays. 

— G. S. 



INTRODUCTION 

To revise, publish and read the poetry of one who at 
that time has already been called to ''The Great Beyond" 
is a task at once so painful and so pleasant that language 
seems to fail us in its capacity to express its own. Pain- 
ful, because it keeps before us more than ever the start- 
ling fact that Time again has deprived us of the pres- 
ence of one without whom life will never again be quite 
the same — quite complete; pleasant, because it links us 
to that very Presence at its best. Or shall I say the 
Real Self, tho gone, is ever with us, giving its view-point 
unrestrainedly — checked, as it were, neither by impulses 
within or conditions without. 

Again, had "Our Loved One" lived, who knows 
whether we ever should have seen her aspirations in 
print! There was a certain shyness, or shall I say mod- 
esty about her, which made her hesitate to show herself 
at her innate, true value and not one of us, husband or 
mother, sister or brother, ever caught her in the act of 
actually writing. Of at least two-thirds of her efforts 
no one but herself knew anything. It was but thru the 
untiring efforts of her husband that her very best selec- 
tions were found, one by one; and the hiding places 
themselves were as inconspicuous as was the author. Not 
even of "The Ode of the Memory of My Father," to me 
her favorite poem, did anyone, the family included, know 
the existence. 

In terms of a life lived so unpretentiously and so 
unassumingly, of a soul misunderstood by all but a few 



whose power of comprehension is far above that of the 
rest of us, we, her nearest and dearest, publish her writ- 
ings, mainly for relatives and friends. Should others 
outside of that little circle wish to share our pleasure of 
reading, we shall be glad indeed, to serve them in the 
name of her whose physical serving has ceased to be. 
May her gentle spirit, better fit for a larger realm, look 
down upon our efforts in approval. 

—A. J. T. 

Carver, September 28, 1919. 




CLASS SONG OF 1903 

Our darling school is o'er at last, 

Its lessons closed and done; 

Its troubles and its joys are past, 

Our victory is won. 

We look forward to our pleasures bright 

Of a glad vacation morn, 

And see upon Commencement Night 

A rose without a thorn. 

Chorus: Yet firm in Memory's fond embrace 
Are locked the dear school days, 
And oft in running life's long race 
We'll stop to chant their peerless praise. 

Tonight we speak the parting word 

To teachers, patient, tender; 

Tonight we gird the future's sword, 

And that of the past surrender. 

Though on the threshold of learning, but 

We've reached the goal at last, 

And though the future holds a different lot, 

We'll ne'er forget the past. 

Chorus: Yet firm in Memory's fond embrace 
Are locked the dear school days, 
And oft in running life's long race 
We'll stop to chant their peerless praise. 

1903. — (Carver Graded School) 



BEHIND THE WINDOW 

Only a bit of narrow woods, 

On a richly carpeted knoll, 
Only a bit of sunshine and sky, 

Above and beyond, that is all. 

But oh, the sunshine is cheering, 

And the trees are so graceful and tall; 

As they gently sway and rustle 
In their Indian robes of fall. 

And the stars at midnight bear a message 

Directly from our own God; 
And the creeping vines by autumn touched 

Form a bed of flowers on the dark green sod. 

And there's beauty and music and sunshine 

In the very air that I breathe, 
A message, a lesson and a charge to me 

In all the birds and trees. 

And I love to look and to ponder 

On the little I see and hear; 
To know it's a part of God's great plan 

To bring Nature and man more near. 

But sometimes the heavens are clouded 
And I listen and look and long 



For the sunshine, the birds and the insects 
And the stars that have faded and gone. 

Then I compare my life to the morning 

That never has seen a sun; 
And think my path is as lonely and sad 

As the night without a moon. 

And I think of Him whose earthly life 

Was so full of sorrow and pain; 
And then, of the heavenly peace that followed 

When He died and rose again. 

And then thru the darkness out of my window 
And thru the world's sorrow and wrong; 

I catch a vision of the light of Heaven, 

And by the strength of the storm I grow strong. 



Fall, 1906. 



Be thou as the lily, pure, 

And as the violet, lowly, 

And as the sweet for-get-me-not, 

Let your life be true and holy. 

B« thou as the lily, pure, 
And as the rose, be tender, 
But as the modest violet, maid, 
Thy will to His, surrender. 



"TO DARLING BABY" 

A thousand times may God be praised; 
A thousand grateful prayers be raised; 
A thousand anxious fears are stilled; 
A thousand wistful hopes fulfilled. 

How often have we prayed to see 
Thy little life launched peacefully! 
At last thou liest. loved and blessed 
Folded to thy mother's breast. 

Father, make her all Thine own, 
Love her, keep her, guide her Home 
And Thou who'st died her soul to free, 
May she early turn to Thee. 



1-4, '09. 



WHEN LOVE FAILED IN ITS MISSION 

A pilgrim child is fainting, 

Is falling by the road, 
Has almost dropped exhausted 

Beneath her heavy load. 

She never spoke of her burden, 
Never complained of the care, 

Till I found her crushed and bleeding 
In the Demon arms of Despair. 

Her eyes had that wild defiance 

Which comes when all hope is gone, 

When love has failed in its mission 
To a lonely, unpopular one. 

Long had I seen and known her, 
Had gone with her in and out; 

But had never measured her struggles 
Nor fathomed her thick'ning doubt. 

Had never thot of her comfort, 
Had selfishly prayed for my own; 

As if that suffering Saviour 
Had died for me alone! 

To Him her life was as dear as mine, 
For He loved us both the same; 

To her He gave the compassion, 
To me, perhaps the blame. 

She heeds not now our calling, 

Nor wakens when we weep; 
For lo, the Master Musician, 
Has lulled our loved one to sleep. 
Spring, 1909 (?) 

9 



FATHER, I THANK THEE 

Father, I thank Thee that thou didst will it so 
That from thy great white throne 
Thou didst bend and whisper low, 
"Servant, ye shall not go alone." 

Alone to an unknown heathen land, 
O'er a dark and dangerous sea; 
Where she did see Thy guiding hand 
Point a vision of work for Thee. 

She did not waver, Lord, to say, 
"Thy will, not mine be done." 
Thou hast not wavered to repay 
Thy true and trusting one. 

He did not heed this vain world's cry, 
Which fain had lured him to its own; 
But thru sweet faith he gazed on high, 
And kept his gaze on Thy white throne. 

Oh, Thou by whom thru many tears 
This wondrous faith thru Love survives, 
Thou wilt not fail in future years 
To bless these two united lives. 

1-31/09. — To E. E. B. 



10 



Oh, for the luxury of somebody's love, 
Somebody's heart lost wholly in mine; 
Oh, what a blessing direct from above, 
To have somebody say, "Thou art mine." 



LOVE 

Love is a passion deep and strong, 
Life led by love is a siren's song. 

Love has a language all its own, 

A language spoken in every tongue. 

Love is a story often told, 

A wondrous tale which ne'er grows old. 

Love is this great world's lullaby, 
For it hushes the weary nation's cry. 

« 

Love is a troubled spirit's rest, 

While the trembling form is clasped to its breast. 

Love is a master, firm but tender, 
To follow her law is self-surrender. 

Love is a badge of sin forgiven, 
Brot to Earth from One in heaven. 

Love is a soul from Heaven sent, 
For Love is God's own monument. 

2-4-'09. 

11 



2-7-'09. 



CONSECRATION 

Freely Thou hast given, 
Freely let me take; 
In error I've been sleeping, 
In Truth I am awake. 

Longingly I hungered, 
Completely hast Thou fed, 
Hast giv'n Thy broken body 
To be my Living Bread. 

Parchingly I thirsted, 
Meekly at the brink 
Of Thy Living Water 
Thou hast bid me drink. 

Meekly I will follow, 
Prayerfully and sure, 
Humbly I will worship, 
Joyfully endure. 

Freely I have taken, 
Freely I will give, 
Fully have I promised, 
Fully may I live. 



12 



THE SILENT SERMON OF THE STARS 

They gleam, they glow, they glisten, 
They glitter o'er the glimmering sea; 

They seem to be the eyes of heaven 
Silently watching you and me. 

They thrill us with purer passions, 
They fill us with loftier light, 

They seem like silent sermons, 
Thru the holy hush of night. 

The perilous path of the pilot, 

The wanderer from afar, 
And even the ancient Wise men, 

Were directed by a star. 

Changeful ages have vanished, 
Nations have come and gone; 

Men have fought and been vanquished, 
But the same steady stars shine on. 

Poverty may banish 

From the mountain or lake or fall; 
But the quiet constellations 

Are the heritage of all. 

No earth-born canvass can liken 
That beaming, sparkling tent; 

For the hand of the Master Artist 
Has painted the firmament. 

2-4-'09. 3-6-'10 

13 



5-22-'09 



A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS 

"Child of my brain," 
Go, wander forth at will, 
Visit the poor 
And sit beside the ill. 
Where Happiness is queen, 
And pleasures always reign, 
Thy humble little message 
Would only meet disdain. 
Thou wert born of sorrow 
And taught of Sorrow's need. 
Go, wander forth, my heart-child 
Where sister sorrows bleed. 

Voice of the woods, 
All hidden by the green, 
Let thy note be' heard, 
Let thy face be seen. 
Thy owner is not worthy 
Of honor or of fame; 
Thy mission is for Jesus, 
Thy song is in His name. 
Thou wert born of sorrow 
And taught of Jesus' Word. 
Oh, voice out of the wilderness, 
Go "crying" for thy Lord. 



14 



5-25-09. 



DAWN 

Another day is breaking, 

Slow soars the winged night; 
Earth is reawakening, 

The East is ribbed with light. 

A thousand throats are swelling, 

In warbling melody, 
A thousand songsters telling 

Of heavenly harmony. 

Oh, listen to its singing, 
This choir taught of God; 

It sets the forests ringing, 
And the echoes to applaud. 

In yonder vale the village lies 

Immantled in the mist, 
Until the lifting light arise, 

And dews and damps are kissed. 

Oh, watch the day advancing, 
Oh, watch the broadening gray; 

Oh, see the sunbeams dancing, 
The dawn has wooed the day. 

Another day is breaking, 

Fast flees another night; 
Earth is reawakening 

In love and light and life. 



15 



7-17-'10. 



DAYBREAK 

There's rift in the eastern horizon; 
There's a far, faint line of light; 
Then the mingling of light and color 
Chasten far the stilly night. 

There's a stir among the branches, 
An awak'ning in the nests; 
And a twittering and a trilling 
From a thousand little breasts. 

Higher still and higher climbs 
That chariot of fire,, 
Louder still and sweeter sings 
Our consecrated choir. 

Happy is the waking world 
And all the children in it; 
Glad to see the new-born day, 
To welcome and begin it. 



16 



THE SUMMER SKY 

O hazy heights of summer sky, 

O, dreamy depths of blue; 
With graceful swallows sailing by, 

The long, long season thru. 

With fleeces floating listlessly 

Against the azure dome 
And stars peep forth resistlessly, 

To win the wanderer home. 

Depths may have their fascination, 
And lengths and breadths their grace; 

But the winged imagination 
Travels upward into space. 



17 



A SUMMER'S SONG 

Dreamily, drowsily drifting by, 
Cool and clear are the clouds on high, 
Calm and cool and clear is the sky, 
The summer season surrounds us. 

Leisurely, listlessly lingering on, 
Lazily loiters the river along; 
Sluggish and slow and soft is its song; 
Its murmuring motion resoundeth. 

Breezily buzzes the bumblebee by, 
Brilliant the beautiful butterfly; 
Blooming and blowing and blushing sky, 
Fragrant flowers are nodding. 

Tenderly, tunefully twittering near, 
Peaceful the pretty birds appear, 
Hark, how happy the hearts I hear, 
The answering echoes applauding. 

Wilfully washing its watery way, 
Busily bustles the brook to the bay, 
Bubbling and babbling and brimming away. 
What wonder the wanderer wakens. 

Melody, music and mirth abound; 
Man in his merriest mood is found; 
Holiness, happiness, health all around, 
To heavenly harmony take him. 

7-22-'09. 

18 



THE HEAVENLY POWER 

The mutest cry that e'er ascended 
Was heard at the Throne of Grace; 

The deaf can hear His gentle voice, 
The blind can see His face. 

No murmured prayer was ever offered 

By lisping babyhood, 
No infant's cry was ever uttered, 

But that He understood. 

We gaze upon the midnight stars 

In baffled admiration, 
We watch the noiseless centuries tread, 

We ponder o'er their destination. 

A thousand years to Him on High 

Are but as yesterday; 
The burning sun, the beaming moon, 

The planets own His sway. 

The lowliest blade is not too tiny, 
To come forth at His call; 

The waters of the sea obey Him! 
For he is Lord of all. 

The kneeling nations pray to him 
All tongues and accents blending; 

To Him who knows all languages 
Our stubborn wills are bending. 

We do not understand His ways 

Or know His hidden powers; 
As high as heaven is over earth 
His mind is over ours. 
May, 1909 

19 



7-20-'09. 



FROM THE SPIRIT'S DEPTH 

Wearily the wind is sighing, 
And heavily drops the rain, 
Drip, drop, drop, drip, 
Against the window pane. 
Drearily the coo-coo's crying 
But he cryeth in vain, in vain. 

Mournfully the sea is sobbing, 
And the foghorn calls out dismally 
Whoo-wo-o-o Wooo-wo-o-oo, 
Across the watery way, 
And the ocean's bosom throbbing 
Tosses the ships at bay. 

Heavily my heart is heaving 
And my spirit moans in its pain, 
Oh! O-o-o ! O-o-o! Oh! 
Has all my life been vain? 
To the cross my soul is cleaving, 
Saviour, make me whole again. 



20 



ODE TO FRIENDSHIP 

Oh, heart, I would that thou wert silent 

Forever in my breast; 
Thou cryest out so loud and long; 

Thou moanest and art distressed. 
I cannot labor, heart of mine, 

While thou lamentest so; 
My feverish frame can find no rest 

While thou tossest it to and fro. 

Oh night, night, night! 

Why bringest thou back the pain? 
Has all this long day's labor 

Brot weariness in vain? 
Oh night, night, night! 

Oh cruel, relentless night! 
Would I could turn thy haunting darkness 

Into toiling, dead'ning light! 

Longing, longing, longing 

For the gentle caress of a hand; 
For the only human being 

That could always understand; 
For the sympathy without measure ; 

For the candor unmarred by blame ; 
For the earnest advice of a loving heart 

That bled when mine was in pain. 

Oh, Love, Love, Love! 

Thou sacred passion and pain; 

21 



Thou highest law of God above, 

Thou holiest bond of men, 
Come, whisper, tell me who thou art, 

Thou strange, thou wild intruder. 
Art thou mocking my poor heart, 

Or comest thbu as a brother? 

Thou earnest as a forest fire, 

With wild and sudden might; 
Thou ling'rest as its glowing coals, 

Thru rain, thru shine, thru night. 
Thou makest life a weary weight, 

And death a deep desire; 
Thou yearnest and^thou burnest on 

Oh strange, Oh sacred fire! 

Yet, is it strange that I should love 

With all a woman's daring? 
Oh, is it strange that I should long 

With such passionate despairing? 
Jonathan his David had 

And Tennyson his Hallam; 
Why should not truest womanhood 

Give her first love to woman? 

And is it meet that man should mourn; 

Should ever ask to understand 
The kind mysterious leading 

Of that loving, unseen hand? 
Is it not wrong that Love should weep, 

Should ever yearn and crave and long; 
Because to bigger, better service 

The loved one was led on? 

Oh Friendship, thou art selfish; 
Thou defeatest thine own end; 

22 



For the love that only longeth, 

Hindereth thy friend. 
She whom God hath called to service 

Needeth thy most earnest prayers; 
Go, thank the Father that He gave her, 

And wipe thy helpless tears. 

Out in the world's wide whit'ning vineyard 

Some fruit without thee will not ripen; 
Some little corner, dark and dreary, 

Thy light alone can brighten. 
And 0, the heavy, heavy burdens, 

That other hearts alone must bear, 
The while thou liest, idly weeping, 

For the love thou wouldst not share. 

Knowest thou not that God hath given thee 

Such a tender Love as thine, 
In His gentleness to lead thee 

To His deeper, love divine? 
Knowest thou not that earthly friendships 

Are but stepping-stones to God? 
He who craves a "soul-companion," 

Must seek the living Son of God. 



Oct., 1910. 



23 



Friendship loved and waited, 

Long, long, alone, 

Waited for a letter 

From the cherished one; 

Wept and wished and waited 

With love's hope unabated, 

But the letter did not come. 

Friendship's heart grew wistful 

As the weary weeks went by; 

For the longing never sleepeth 

Till Love will satisfy; 

And the heart grew worn with pleading, 

Worn and torn with constant bleeding; 

But friendship did not die. 



24 



A PRAYER FOR A FRIEND 

She will not show her deep wound 
Oh, help her, Heavenly Father, 
Help her to be strong; 

Draw her close, dear Saviour, 
Let her not go wrong. 

She loves Thee, Heavenly Father, 
As few earthly creatures dare; 

She tries to serve The, Saviour, 
Save her from despair. 

I know her heart is heavy 

Tho her lips' sweet smile is fair; 

Her voice is so sad and earnest, 
Each murmur is a prayer. 

I know her limbs are aching, 
Her cross is made of pain; 

Her heart is well-nigh breaking, 
Tho her lips will not complain. 

She will not show her deep wound, 
Nor let me help her bear; 

So all that I can give her 

Is just a friend's deep prayer. 

Oh, hear my wild petition, 
Oh, heed my pleading cry, 

Give her Thy peace for blessing 
And wipe her tear-dimmed eye. 

Oct. 3, -'09 

25 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE 

I went into a bloody field 
Where the battle of life was on, 
And every face was hard and cold 
And every feature drawn. 

And every person that I saw 

Was a soldier battle tried, 

But never a one showed comradeship 

To the warrior at his side. 

But the friends of youth I could not see 
Or else they passed me by, 
And those who once had wished me well 
Now watched with jealous eye. 

But I had come with a loving heart 
To help my fellow men 
And with my youthful bouyance 
I sang a song to them. 



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Dear little room, at last, at last 
I'm coming back to you, 
Out of the school days of the past 
I bring you a welcome true. 



26 



THE DROUGHT 

High in a tree, 

A nest I see, 
Swinging and swaying, swinging and swaying 

The tall tree tosses, 

Its large limbs crosses, 
For the wild west winds are playing; 

But far away 

Like a minstrel's lay 
The bird's gay song is ringing, 

For he is free 

As the restless sea, 
And his life was given for singing. 

Far away, 

O'er the hillsides gray, 
The earth is baking and burning; 

The hot sun scorches 

Like blazing torches; 
And years of lean are returning. 

Yet, from the rushes, 

A pure spring gushes, 
And a brook goes slipping and sliding. 

It babbles along 

Like a childhood song, 
O'er its grassy bottoms riding. 

Far o'er the lake 
The lilies awake 



27 



And the lazy boats are sailing: 
Tis the bridal hour 
Of the garden flower 

And only man is wailing. 

On buzzing wings, 
The honey-bee sings, 

Nor laments the lack of raining, 
For Nature can treasure 
Unlimited measure, 

And man alone is complaining. 

7-U-'10. 



j& 



Every pine tree is laden, 

Is kneeling before our King; 

And the voiceless prayer from its bosom 

Makes the silent forest ring. 

Each tiny leaflet is praising, 

Is offering a prayer of its own; 

And the soundless chorus they're raising 

Wafts incense to the throne. 



28 



Winter, 1910. 



REST 

Rest, tired hands, rest; 
For labor unceasing, 
Is labor increasing; 

Rest, rest, 
The day is closing, 
All are reposing, 

Rest! 

Rest tired heart, rest, 
From longing and yearning 
From bleeding and burning 

Rest, rest, 
The still stars above 
Are guarding thy love, 

Rest! 

Rest tired mind, rest. 
Thy ceaseless endeavor 
Cannot go on forever; 

Rest, rest, 
God in His kindness, 
Hath kept thee in blindness, 

Rest! 

Rest tired soul, rest. 
spirit of mine 
Why toil and repine? 

Rest, rest, 
God knew it was right 
When He gave us the night, 

Rest! 



29 



EVENING 

Sink, sink, O summer sun, 

Into the cloud-banked west. 

Still, still, thou winged one, 

Thy quivering breast. 

Hushed are the wheels of labor, 
Darkened the mountain neighbor, 
All, all is at rest. 

Sail, Sail, O silvery moon, 

Across the cloud-clothed sky. 

All, all will be sleeping soon 

That thou canst beautify. 
Closer creep the shadows 
Across the dew-dipped meadows, 
Even draweth nigh. 

Cease, cease, ambitious man, 
From labor and from care; 
Cease and listen while you can 
To childhood's evening prayer. 
For 'tis the evening hour, 
Now sleepeth bird and flower. 
Peace reigneth everywhere. 



30 



THE LIFE LIGHT 

I awoke in the dead of midnight, 
And pain drove me to my feet; 
And the only light to guide me 
Was a lamp across the street. 

I staggered forth in the darkness, 
I sought that one bright ray; 
And that distant lamp at midnight 
Meant more than the moon by day. 

I awoke in the night of sorrow, 
The sin clouds were hanging low; 
There was only one light to turn to, 
The Life-light's steady glow. 

I put forth my hands in the darkness, 
They were clasped by a hand divine; 
I set my eyes on the Life-light, 
And His life entered mine. 



31 



EVENTIDE 

I sit alone at eventide 

And watch the dusky mantle fall, 

The lightning flashes on every side 

And the dark clouds bend to the rain crow's call. 

And a thousand thots come crowding home 
With a thousand discontents, 
As I feel my weak and trembling form 
So frail against the elements. 



32 



TWILIGHT 

Another night is nearing, 
Another day drops low; 
Twilight reappearing 
Veileth the golden glow. 

Slowly sinketh the setting sun 
Into a glory of purple and gold; 
Slowly admitting the day is done, 
Labor releases its iron hold. 

Softly the dusk is creeping 
Into the slumber-stilled nest; 
The love-lulled lilly is sleeping 
On the dew-dipped mother breast. 

What maketh the twilight so holy? 
Is it that all is so fair? 
Or the sleep of the little and lowly 
Peacefully pillowed on prayer? 

What maketh the angels draw nearer? 
Hath Nature been purified? 
Or is it that mortals seem dearer 
At the hush of the eventide? 

God meant the quiet evening 
As a rest for great and small; 
So down thru the star-studded heaven 
He guardeth and guideth all. 
7-21-'10. 



33 



7-21-'10. 



WAITING 

O, to wait is weary, weary, 
Weary for the soul; 
It makes the sun seem dreary 
And the noonday cold. 

O, to wait is trying, trying, 
Trying to the heart. 
'Twere easier to be dying, 
To play perfection's part. 

I'm waiting for a letter, 
A letter from a friend. 
I love her more and better 
The less she can befriend. 

0, to wait is lonely, lonely, 
Lonely for the soul; 
It bringeth heartache only 
And pain beyond control. 

My soul is sick with waiting; 
My heart is crushed and torn; 
My strength is slow abating; 
I am weary, I am worn. 



34 



LITTLE BLACK SPECK 

Little black speck so high, so high, 
What art thou seeking up there in the sky? 
Far above the noise and the crowd, 
Almost lost in the summer cloud, 
Thy little wings fly. 

Little dark dot so high, so high, 
Almost lost to the mortal eye. 
Art thou not weary, O, winged one 
Nor heedeth the kiss of the summer sun 
Up there in the sky? 

Little blithe bird so high, so high, 
Thou art a lesson to me where I lie; 
My life seems to me too tied and tried, 
Thou seemest so safe and satisfied. 
Thou creature shy. 

Little fair form so high, so high, 
Would I could wander with thee thru the sky 
Farther and farther from sin and night, 
Closer and closer to Home and Light, 
Little one, thou and I. 



7-19-'10. 



35 



O COME AWAY 

come away 

Where the flowers are gay 
And the little brook babbles and bubbles, 

Where life is pure 

And love is sure 
And the heart forgets its troubles. 

slip away 

Where the south winds play 
And bees and birds are singing, 

Where the sky is blue 

And the heart is true 
And the woods with praise are ringing. 

hie away 

This summer day 
Where the lazy rivers wind, 

With ceaseless jars 

Of the noisy cars 
Left leagues and leagues behind. 

O steal away 

At close of day 
Where the little brook gurgles and gushes, 

Forget the snares 

Of your daily cares 
Where no one hastens or rushes. 



10-26-'10. 



36 



FAITHFUL SERVICE 

Not to be always wanting 

Some other work to do, 
But cheerfully to take the task 

That Christ has set for you. 

And to hear the little crosses 

Of humble daily life, 
With that same dauntles courage 

Meant for nobler strife. 

I know not the way I am going 
But well do I know my Guide ; 

So with childlike faith I give my hand 
To the strong Friend at my side. 

To Gladys W. 



37 



ROBIN, SING 

Robin, robin in the treetop, 
High above the throng; 
Sing a song 

Till the echoes ring 
With thy happy song. 

Robin, robin, as thou singest, 
And poureth forth thy lay; 
Thou doth close 

With sweet repose 
This weary summer day. 



7-12-11. 



O WORLD OF 3EAUTY 

O world of Beauty, who am I, 

That thus I'm born into thy bounds of wealth? 

Millions plod beneath a smoke-hung sky 

And millions perish for want of their health. 

All about me is the glory of the morning; 

All above me are the boundless heights of blue 

The laughing sunbeams, every tiny leaf adorning, 

Rise to kiss the trembling drops of dew. 

Surely, all these realms of wealth can not be mine 

Without return ! On, on and up my soul. 

Toil, think, live, and aid His plan divine 

If thou canst, 'till thou has reached thy goal. 

Lift with loving word and simple deed 

The world's great burden, the heart's great need. 

38 



TO THE AMERICAN GOLDFINCH 

Little dash of sunshine, 
Gathered into song, 
Pouring out its gladness 
All the summer long. 

Music sweet and joyous 
Harmonious and rare, 
Like an unseen fragrance 
Floating on the air. 

Flitting o'er the thistle downs 
With its mate at will, 
Shedding golden radiance 
Like a daffodil. 

Ever close together, 
Within each other's reach, 
Like devoted lovers, 
Waiting each on each. 

Teach us your devotion 
Humble little pair, 
Constancy and oneness 
Like yourselves are rare. 



7-19-'ll. 



39 



LEST WE BE TRUE 

It is not what the many do 
That makes our lives so deep and real; 
It is the actions of our chosen few 
That make us think and act and feel; 
That mold our lives and shape our ends; 
That make us vile or virtuous, sad or gay. 
Yet, what is the influence of our friends 
Lest we be true? What can they say 
To all our plans and hopes and fears, 
If we give way to empty lust, 
Or look at them thru unfelt tears; 
Nor give them full and simple trust? 
Not even Love can help lest Faith agree; 
Not even Christ can save the pharisee. 



7-21-'ll. 



40 



ON RETURNING HOME 

When I return to my girlhood home 
And see how many there have forgotten me; 
How even those with whom I used to roam 
About the woods and hills and o'er the lea 
Are growing cold and strange; I often pause 
Along my busy way and try to find 
Why it is so; and what should be the cause 
Of all this fickle heart and superficial mind. 
And in my solitude and secret pain 
I turn alone to Nature. Alone I "lift 
Mine eyes unto the hills," and not in vain; 
I seek and find the priceless, God-given gift 
Of inward peace and joy. And then I know 
That He still is where they refuse to go. 
4-.27-11 



41 



SO MUCH TO LIVE FOR 

So much to live for, so much to do; 
Such worth to strive for, such beauty true; 
Such worlds and worlds of shining stafs above; 
Such miles and miles of loveliness below; 
One great throbbing Father-heart of Love; 
Millions and millions of responding hearts that grow 
Into His grace; such love, such pain, such beauty 
All for me. And yet, I scarce know why, 
Despite this lavish wealth of joy and duty, 
At times I wildly wish that I could die, 
I grow so faint and weary. O, God, forgive! 
I know it is all selfishness and cowardice; 
Help me to nerve myself to truly live 
For others, not for self, to grow, to rise. 
8-1-11. 



42 



NATURE'S MOODS 

The mournful call of the cuckoo 
Comes heavily on the breeze; 
The morning air is burdened 
With the sighing of the trees. 

The dewless earth awakens, 
Its weary lids unclose; 
On, on to toil and struggle 
Listless mankind goes. 

The barn fowl all are panting 
In the burning sun of June; 
The night wore into morning 
The morn wears into noon. 

The thirsty earth lies waiting 
With parched lips apart. 
Come, come, rain of summer 
And soothe her burning heart. 

The sultry air grows thicker, 
Denser grows the day; 
The listless leaves droop motionless, 
The cuckoo calls mournfully. 

The sun in sanguine splendor 
Prepares his way to leave. 
The morn wore into noontide, 
The noon wears into eve. 

The clouds begin to thicken 
With dark and sullen frown; 

43 



8-l-'ll. 



And suddenly at midnight 
The rain comes pouring down. 

But ah, the dewy morning, 
It laughs at all this blight 
'Twas but a mood of Nature 
That passed off with the night. 



& 



A SONG 

I heard the dawn advancing, 
While yet mine eyes were closed. 
It came with song and dancing; 
It roused me from repose. 

And all the live-long summer day 
The music rose and swelled; 
So that the shadows laughed at play 
And the dimpled waters smiled. 

And when the jeweled eventide 
Bent softly o'er the glen, 
It was the song on every side 
Put me to sleep again. 



8-6-'ll. 



THE FIRST SCALP 

Said the chief in iron tones, 
"Take her then, and make her thine, 
Take my child, my fairest daughter, 
But remember she is mine. 
Lest thou slay our bitterest foe; 
Slay, and bring to me a sign. 

Out into the winter forest 
Strode the warrior young and bold. 
Took his weapons and his warpaint, 
Took his love into the cold; 
All the love and all the courage 
One stout, savage heart could hold. 

'Round the wigwam of the chieftain, 
'Round the camp-fires of the foe 
Day and night the warrior lingered. 
Waited in the cold and snow, 
Waited for the daring moment 
He could strike his deadly blow. 

And the wind blew loud and louder, 

Colder grew the moonlight bright; 

And the guards who watched their chieftain 

Weary grew with naught to fight; 

Slept the sleep of sheer exhaustion, 

Feared no foe on such a night. 

Stealthily the youthful warrior, 
Youthful lover of his bride, 
Slipt up to the sleeping chieftain; 

45 



Cut his head in ruthless pride; 
Leapt into the night of darkness, 
Homeward rushed with anxious stride. 

Broke the morn across the mountains, 
Roused the guards from slumber deep; 
Saw their headless chieftain lying 
Wrapped in painless, endless sleep. 
Not a sign of foe or fighting. 
Of a wolf among the sheep. 

Yet here a blood stain, there another; 

Out into the winter snow, 

Wild with war-whoops and with weapons, 

All the warriors sought their foe, 

Each one wild with savage vengeance, 

Wild to strike the deadly blow. 

Almost they have over-taken, 
Taken fast the fleeing foe; 
So the heavy head he leaves them, 
Scalpless, ghastly on the snow; 
Reaches safe his chieftain's camp-fire; 
Leaves the warriors dumb with woe. 

"Eto, E-ho," 1 cried his chieftain, 
Brave my warrior, brave my son, 
Thou hast won my peoples' freedom, 
My fair daughter thou hast won. 
Hence shall scalps be ever token, 
When a noble deed is done. 

"Wohou-o-win, 2 wohou-o-win," 
Wailed the warriors, wailed the foe. 



46 



"Nenemoosah, 3 my fair sweetheart" 
Laughed the youth at all their woe. 

"I have won thee, my meetahwin, 4 
Praise to Gitchemanito." 5 



1. Eto, E-ho, an exclamation of delight. 

2. Wo-honowin. cry of lamentation or woe. 

3. Nenemoosah, my sweetheart. 

4. Meetahwin. my bride. 

5. Gitchemanito. the great spirit. 



8-24-'ll. 



IF— BUT 

If all that rhymed were poetry 

And all that sounded, song; 

And all of Nature rang with glee, 

And spring-time lasted all year long; 

If every flow'r bore fragrance pure 

And every blade were green; 

And all the plans we made were sure, 

And all mistakes unseen; 

But we, poor mortals, weak and proud, 

Continued in our paths of sin; 

The only creatures mind-endowed, 

The only one not pure within; 

This world would all the darker be, 

Its loveliness, a mockery. 



47 



REFLECTED LIGHT 

If every star had a shining moon 

And every moon a milky way, 
And all the stars and all the moons 

Combined their light the livelong day — 
Still, still, when up the eastern steeps 

That majestic firefraught chariot plowed 
Like a stately ship across the deeps, 

To naught were all that light so proud. 

If every soul in every clime 

Shed forth its very brightest light 

And all the light shone all the time, 

We still would grope in earthly night. 

For the night only borrows its light from the sun, 
And we but reflect the Perfect One. 



8-8-'ll. 



ALONE 

The melodies of the throbbing forest sink 
Into hushed silence; the Eternal Lamp of Splendor 
Slips away; the wood-thrush folds her pinions tender; 
I sit alone in the twilight, and think and think and think. 

a-io-'ii. 

48 



9-10,-'!!. 



STRIVE ON 

I feel the summer slipping by, 

'Tis O, such pain. 
Soon the fall will be upon me 

And winter come again. 

Each day I think the birds will wing 
From their summer bowers; 

Each night I fear the chilling frost 
Will numb the flowers. 

So much, so much, o'er hill and dale 

Doth fear the frost; 
I long to hold the summer close 

Ere all is lost. 

I feel my girlhood slipping from me, 

'Tis 0, such pain! 
I yearn to keep the young thot's burning, 

But all in vain. 

Each day brings me a little farther 

From youth and May; 
Each year makes it a little harder 

To press on cheerfully. 

Up, up, my soul, 'tis work and battle, 

Whate'er the cost; 
For I must find my task completed 

Before the frost. 

Life speeds on, the season rushes, 

When falls the frost; 
The fields ungathered, the thots unspoken 

Will all be lost. 



49 



9-2,-'ll. 



NIGHT AND MORNING 

Softly pillowed on the night's still rapture 
My gazing soul doth joy-thrilled vigil keep, 
Until the stars and moon my dreams to capture, 
Bear me soaring to the quiet land of sleep. 

Closely wrapped in night's oblivion tender, 
The careful darkness guards my spirit's den, 
Until the throbbing morning's greater splendor 
Breathes me into consciousness again. 



50 



TO AN AUTUMN VIOLET 

gentle autumn violet, 
Why come ye here to bloom, 

Mid dropping fruit and turning leaves 
And daily deep'ning gloom? 

In spring when all the world was fair 
Thou wert by far the fairest; 
But now, O modest autumn guest 
Thou fairest art and rarest. 

Thou standest in thy innocence, 
A child amid a crowd of men; 
Pure childlike impulses it brings 
And thou, sweet thots of spring again. 

1 found thee late amid the gloom, 
I left thee where thou fairest wert; 
But let me back to the autumn wood 
To hide thee, dear, within my heart. 

And when life's autumn deepens round me 
And I grow faint, let me remember 
That while I mourned the summer's leaving 
I found the violet in September. 



9-13,-'ll. 



51 



SUMMER NIGHT 

Stillness, stillness, far and near, 
Twilight music closes; 

Just a cricket, sweet and clear, 
Chirps among the roses. 

Fragrance, fragrance fresh and free 
Breathed upon the breezes, 

Like a melting melody 

Freeing whom it seizes. 

Rapture, rapture all around, 
Sigh and tear forbidden; 

Peace too deep for stir or sound 
In the heart is hidden. 
9-21X11. 



52 



A BALLAD OF THE TREES AND THE MASTER 

Could Lanier possibly have written a more beautiful, 
a more perfect little ballad than this of "The Trees and 
the Master?" The very title suggests, yes tells, just 
what we can expect and just what we get. "A Ballad," 
not a long, prosy piece or a dignified ode, or even a 
beautiful lyric; but just "A Ballad of Trees," that is 
woods, deep forest, Nature herself, and ''the Master," 
"THE MASTER." 

"Into the woods my Master went, 
Clean forspent, forspent, 

"My Master," what a world of meaning there is in 
those two words, MY MASTER! What untold resigna- 
tion, what pure, deep love, what unwavering, childlike 
trust they suggest when they come from the pen of a 
man like Lanier! Yes, and HE was "clean forspent." 
On that last dark night of that awful Passion Week, on 
that blackest night of all history, when ''the Son of Man 
was betrayed by a kiss," what wonder was it that He was 

"Forspent with love and shame!" 

Ah ! but the poet's sensitive soul can see also a beau- 
tiful side to the sad picture. To him it seems impossible 
that He who could say without hesitancy or wincing, 
"Before the world was, I was," should, on that dark night 
be forsaken by all but His compassionate Father. It 
seemed to Lanier as though the great heart of Nature 
must have throbbed and sympathized and sent out her 
gentle, soothing messengers to Him Who came to His 
own and His own received Him not." He seems to have 



thought that Nature had a definite understanding for the 
great suffering of his "Master," for he says: 

"The olives were not blind to Him, 
The little gray leaves were kind to him; 
The thorn tree had a mind to Him 
When into the woods He came," 

thus giving Nature an almost human understanding for 
Him to Whom ''All things were made." 

The poet does not tell us how long Jesus was in that 
deep sympathizing woods. Only this, that when he came 
out 

"He was well content." 
Yes, even 

"Content with death and shame." 

so complete, so unconditional had been His surrender of 
all those precious moments of sustaining communication 
with "Nature and Nature's God." And those woods, 
those trees would not leave Him to the very last. It 
seems as though they were following Him for 

"When Death and Shame would woo Him last. 
From under a tree they drew Him last; 
'Twas on a tree they slew Him — last, 
When out of the woods He came." 

Gentle, sweet, earnest Lanier; he makes the whole 
story of the crucifixion seem so pure, so deep, so real, 
and his language is so simple and his meter so perfect 
that had he given nothing else to the world but this 
simple "Ballad of the Trees and the Master," his life, his 
painful, troubled life would have been well worth the 
living. 

54 



O, CHANGELESS UNDERCURRENT 

Endless, endless flowing river, 
Flowing, flowing to the sea; 
Like my heart-throbs, pausing never, 
Never daring to be free. 

Deep within thy rocky prison, 
Joy and change on every side; 
Like the longing in my bosom 
Silent thou dost onward glide. 

Here and there the world's commotion 
Spans thy stillness, jars my pain; 
But we two in changeless motion 
Wander, wander to the main. 

Even while thy calm doth fear it 
Mingling waters swell thy rest; 
As at times some kindred spirit 
Hides within my aching breast. 

On and on thru wind and weather, 
Flow ye, deeper, calmer than before, 
Cm and on, we too, together 
Travel toward a better shore. 

But R$ver, thou and I 
Hide our undercurrent deep; 
Worlds may laugh or worlds may cry, 
We our changes, changeless keep. 
9-30/11. 



55 



FORSAKEN 

Forsaken by all but the Father above me, 
Lonely and weary I plod on my way; 
None else to counsel, none else to love me, 
None to come near me by night or by day. 

She in whose cause I forsook friend and lover, 
She for whose sake I was nailed to the cross; 
Has turned me her back, has sought for another. 
Has misrepresented me, brot me my loss. 

He for whose love I was left torn and bleeding, 

Has left me alone in my sorrow and shame; 

The "peace that he found saw no sense" in my pleading, 

He mocked me my suffering, he heaped blame on blame. 

Forsaken by all but the Father above me, 
Footsore and weary I press on my way; 
There's none else to counsel and none else to love me, 
But slowly my pathway grows brighter each day. 

Black were the night and the storm that surround me, 
Cruel the world and distant my goal; 
But softly the light from above shone around me, 
And peace came at last to my struggling soul. 



56 



9-9/11. 



WINGED SPIRIT 

Oh night, in thy mystic splendor 
I gaze into thy starry face, 
I drink thy silence, deep and tender. 
And mute with joy, inhale thy peace. 

And soul, and mind, and emotion dims 
Thru all that earthly thot and sense express; 
Only the winged spirit swings 
Into boundless everlastingness. 



ALL DAY IT RAINED 

All day it rained; and now at eve 
The scowling clouds still drape the city, 
Nor cease to threaten, nor feign to leave 
Until the last full drop is drained. 

All day it rained; nor doth the sun 
At setting, deign to smile farewell, 
But steals away unseen like one 
Who hides in anger or in shame. 

All day it rained; but still the streams 
Bear its burdened bosom nightward; 
Still, still yon robins sing, and seem 
To mock the night, the clouds, the rain. 



57 



AMONG THE HILL OF CARVER 

Afar down on the banks of the beautiful Minnesota, almost 
there where the latter merges itself with the great Father of 
Waters, the little village of Carver lies, snugly hidden away 
among those quiet hills that form that quiet but lovely valley. 
Only those who have lived there know what an unspeakable 
blessing is Nature in such a place: only those who grew up 
there can realize what an untold blessing are such surround- 
ings to a young life. I was taken to those quiet hills and safe- 
ly tucked away among their wholesome solitude before I was 
able to realize my great privilege or to remember the home I 
had left behind. With the exception of a few brief intervals I 
stayed there during all those long years that are henceforth to 
form the background of my life. Will you come with me there- 
fore; will you let me share with you the joy that is always 
mine when I am allowed to return, for a short time, to the 
only place that can ever be home to me? Lakes have their 
attractions and prairies their charms and the restless sea its 
beauty, but let him who wishes to enjoy a beauty that never 
becomes monotonous and to find joy and consolation at all 
times say: 

"I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, from whence cometh 
my help." 

Here the great sun never rises and sets in just the same way 
twice nor does any scene ever present the same aspect at two 
different times; here the great heart of Nature can pour out her 
ever changeful, yet ever harmonious moods at once on the 
highlands and in the lowlands, on the fields and in the forest, 
into the river and by the roadside; here the quick seasons come 
and go with a change and a variety of changes that only a hilly 
or a mountainous country can boast of. 



58 



Softly does the Springtime come; cautiously the new 
Sun sends his first warm rays into the coldest recesses of 
the Winter woods. Does he dare to play with that stern, 
grim-faced visitor or try to warm his cold heart with his 
fresh, gentle love? Oh! already the cold, white face is 
yielding, already is Jack Frost retreating. Springtime 
smiles a little longer and then, almost before we realize 
it, she has conquered the situation, she has become queen 
of the earth. And now that she is mistress she takes 
matters into her own hands. She sends the wild March 
winds to sweep the woods and hillsides; she sends the 
fitful April showers to wash out the valleys and waysides 
and to rap, on their way, at the doors of sleeping flowers, 
she sends the warm May sun to call forth all that has not 
obeyed her summons before. Are you tired of your 
books and of your labor? Are you sick of your city 
rush and noise and worry? Are you lonely amfd the 
crowds in which you are too small to be noticed? Then 
come to the quiet hills of Carver on a bright spring morn- 
ing and watch the released rills and turbulent streamlets 
rush on to meet the swelling river; listen to the exultant 
notes of the returning robins that warble among the 
tree-clothed hillsides; inhale the bracing spring air and 
partake of the joy of Nature because you and she are 
living. 

The season glides on. Like a pure white sheet the 
fragrant blossoms spread themselves throughout tfte or- 
chard, and the woodland flowers begin to people the 
forests. Overhead the tiny leaf buds are swelling and 
throbbing with new life and new power. Among tlie new 
branches the happy birds are beginning their summer 
homes. 

''Everything is happy now, 
Everything is upward striving;" 

59 



for lo! this is the true Renaissance of the year, the great 
Resurrection season. That unspeakable, inexplainable 
thrill called LIFE is felt by high and lowly; for 
"Every clod feels a stir of might, 
An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, grasping blindly above it for light, 
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers." 
Nature has become a new creature and the glad soul of 
man leaps forth to greet her. 

Dreamily, drowsily drifting by 
Cool and clear are the clouds on high; 
Calm and cool and clear is the sky; 
The summer season surrounds us. 
Again we are in a new world. That exultant thrill 
of new life and new hope is not so apparent now. We 
are ready to relax a little and to let the great world, with 
all its work and worry, take its own course, while we lie 
upon the soft summer grass and dreamily view the wide 
landscape. And what a perfect scene it is that greets 
our half closed eyes from the summit of one of those 
numberless hills! For afar on stretches the broad, 
green valley until it slowly rises again to meet the purple 
horizon on the opposite side. Ponds and fields and 
flowers and woodlands lie in that peaceful valley and 
thru its center the blue Minnesota winds its listless 
course. Half hidden among the wide-spreading elms 
and huge maples and tender box-elders the little village 
of Carver lies as peacefully and as quietly as the "village 
of Grand-Pre lay on the shores of the Basin of Minas." 
From all its sides, quiet, dusty roads wind their way out 
into the surrounding country. One leads its travellers 
into broad, rich fields and meadow lands; another is soon 
lost among the grand old trees of our village park; a 
third forms a dividing line between high hills on one 

60 



side and low meadows on the other; a fourth saunters on 
and on until it is lost in an almost primeval forest; and 
a fifth is thrown in between two long rows of hills that 
are so high and grand and beautiful that they almost 
overawe one with their matchless splendor. Has the 
cruel, rushing world without overworked and over- 
whelmed you? Are you tired, unspeakably "tired? 
Would you like to forget everything that drives and 
rushes and worries you? Come with me. I will take 
you to one of those grand old, forest-clad hills and we 
will find rest, rest such as only Nature can offer. 

On steals the quiet season. Change knows no rest 
close to the heart of Mother Nature. Slowly the green 
fields pale and yield to the reaper's sickle. We hear the 
far-off sound of the greedy threshing machine. Autumn 
reigns. The flowers take on a brighter, gayer hue to 
match the gorgeous woodlands; for 

"The maple swamps glow like a sunset sea, 
Each leaf a ripple of its own." 

On the green hillsides where the rugged oaks are so 
abundant we hear an enchanting rustle of falling leases 
and occasionally a nut drops. Squirrels are busy among 
the baring boughs filling their winter larders. Frogs and 
crayfish begin to leave their summer ponds and to build 
their winter homes amid the muddy marshes. Birds 
group themselves into great bodies to take up their 
southland journey. Children answer once more the 
summons of the school bell. The long autumnnal rains 
set in, but only for the purpose of retouching once more 
the withering grass and flowers, that they may look their 
very best throughout the ''tender Indian summer." And 
when that really comes, what can surpass it? What, 
indeed, can be more lovely anywhere than those long 
October days of Carver? The river now takes on a clear, 

61 



transparent beauty, faithfully reflecting every shrub and 
tree along its quiet border. Heavy morning mists 
heighten the splendor and beauty of sunrise. Occasion- 
ally night frosts make the warm, beaming "day-star" 
thoroughly appreciated. "Harmony" is written on every 
fallen leaflet and on every dropping flower. Are you 
weary of the great world with all its listless indifference? 
Are you anxious about your indefinite future? Are you 
willing to be taught by her who has had all the countless 
ages to learn in? If so come to one of those far-seeing 
summits of Carver and watch Nature in her quiet, un- 
hurried, unworried preparations for the long coming cold 
and imprisonment. She will teach you the lesson of 
"A day at a time." 
But little by little the frosts grow sharper and the 
winds keener and louder; little by little the days grow 
shorter and shorter and the nights longer and colder; 
little by little the blue sky pales and droops lower as if 
to meet and sympathize with the barren earth and then 
some bright morning we 

"Look forth upon a world unknown 

On nothing we can call our own." 
for now there are 

"No clouds above 

No earth below 

A universe of sky and snow." 
And what a world of peace lies before us now — 
peace unspeakable, peace immeasurable, peace uncompre- 
hendable! There is nothing at all to mar that quiet 
landscape. Every leaflet is still beneath its heavy load; 
every footpath is covered; 

"Every pine and fir and hemlock 

Wears ermine too dear for an earl, 

62 



And the poorest twig on the elm tree 
Is ridged inch-deep with pearl." 

Those fair green hills have become soft white mounds 
now and the winding river has 

"Built aroof 
'Neath which he can house him winter-proof." 
Old Jack Frost has been very busy all this winter; for 
"He sculptured every summer delight 
In his halls and chambers out of sight." 
Winter, calm, cold, quiet Winter, is King. Do you fear 
that soon you will be utterly crushed or dashed to pieces 
amid the rushing, hurrying crowds? Are those whom 
you cherish most fondly too busy to heed your perplex- 
ities or to visit your sick bed? Has your best friend left 
you for months, perhaps for years, with "no time" to 
say good-bye." Come, tired heart, come to the peace- 
clad hills of Carver. They will soothe your aching 
heart; they will heal your wounded spirit. It is even- 
ing there now. The Old Year is drawing quietly to its 
close, the New is at the open door. He will soon enter, 
but without haste and without turmoil. The broad moon 
smiles placidly over the glittering snow; the deep stars 
fairly glow in their triumphant peace. 

0, cease, cease, ambitious man, 

Thy labour and thy care ! 

Cease and listen, while you can, 

To childhood's evening prayer. 

For, 'tis the evening hour, 

Now sleepeth bird and flower, 

Peace reigneth everywhere. 
April, 1912. 



63 



LET THE SPRINGTIME IN 

Open door and winder 

Let the sunshine in; 
Let not a curtain hinder 

Till the storm begin. 

Everywhere the sunshine 

Is a floodin' up the air; 

Forest tree and garden vine 
Are sproutin' everywhere. 

Little birds are singin' 

Like they'd never sung before ; 
All the world's a-ringin' 

Like it couldn't ring no more. 

Open door and winder, 

Let the children out; 
Let not a lesson hinder, 

This ain't no time for doubt. 



4-12-'12. 



64 



Oh yes, the grass returns and the flowers, 
And the birds sing anew in the trees; 
The cold, gray clouds release their showers, 
The imprisoned earth is free. 

With the quickening thrill of a new sensation 
The streams gush forth once more, 
Like in the dawn of the first creation, 
The sunbeams their radiance pour. 



9f 



Oh Father, tonight my heart is so weary 

And nobody cares that the day's been so dreary; 

Nobody cares for my soul's secret aching, 

And no one's heart yearns 'cause mine's nearly breaking. 

Oh, Jesus of Nazareth, come to my cot, 
Lay gently Thy hand on my forehead so hot, 
And soothe my bruised heart as Thy servants of old, 
Ere the last spark of love in my bosom grows cold. 



65 



FAITH, HOPE, LOVE 

Crushed was the faith that was cherished in vain, 
Cherished but perished in passionate pain; 
Crushed like a blossom is after a rain. 

Gone is the hope that has haunted so long; 
Haunted and taunted my soul with its wrong, 
Gone like a melody after a song. 



1910. 



Still deep is the love that surges my soul; 
Surges, but purges my passionate soul. 
Deep as the depths where the wild waters roll. 

O mocked be the mood that taught me this lay; 
Taught me and caught me adrift by its sway. 
Did Love ever let Truth or Hope go astray? 
Finished 6-7,-'12. 



65 



-14-'12 



THE MAN OF THE HOUR 

Peerless and passionless, 

Yet strong with pride and power; 
Fearless and fashionless 

The man of the hour. 
With no prejudice to blind him, 
With no promises to bind him, 
On a service rock, behind him, 

Stands the manly tower. 

True to the cause we love, 

Tho passionless in it, 
True to the God above 

Who helped him begin it. 
With a nation waiting for him, 
With a people's cause before him, 
May the Father watching o'er him, 

Help him to win it. 

Calm as the evening star 

And as vigilant ever; 
Firm as an iron bar 

Faltering never. 
Why the throbbing millions trust, 
Why by all the world discussed ; 
Wilson and his cause is just. 

Wilson forever. 



67 



THE CHILDREN'S AGE 

Our hearts leap up when we bethink 

The future of the child ; 
So 'twas when Froebel first began, 
So 'tis with Montesorri's plan, 
So shall it be when he can like 

These thousand theories mild. 
The child is teacher of the man 
And we could wish our later stage 
Brot backward to "The Children's Age.' 



6S 



THE THUNDER-STORM 

Didst thou hear the wild winds howling 

Over the lea? 
Didst thou see the black skies scowling 

Down on the sea? 
Didst thou note the wild commotion 
On yonder boiling, storm-tossed ocean, 
Where the waves rock recklessly? 

Didst thou see the torrents tearing 

Adown the hill? 
Or watch the washing waters wearing 

With maddening skill? 
Didst thou note the thunder crashing 
And the livid lightning lashing 
The black'ning clouds at will? 

But suddenly the thunder ceased 

To terrify; 
For all the terror'd been released 

At last on high, 
And all the earth was wrapped in splendor 
And the rainbow came with a touch of tender 

Blue to the sky. 
And then, oh then, didst thou see the sun 
Break thru the rain? 
And far and near didst list'ning hear 

The birds again? 
And all the world with joy aquiver, 
Rapturous, grateful to the Giver 

Of joy and gain. 



8-18-'12. 



69 



DER EINZIGE STERN 

Ich steh' allein in Schmerzen's Kampf, 
Nacht herrchet nahe und fern, 
Und alles was sich nicht verschlingt, 
Das ist ein einziger Stern. 

Ich steh* allein, ein wildes Wen' 
Treibt Tranen mir vom Aug'; 
Dort oben, bei meines Vater's Grab' 
Da mocht' ich liegen auch. 

Ich steh' allein, bekampfe still 
Den tiefen, tumpfen Schmerz; 
Der einzige Stern, der leuchtet mir 
In mien betrubtes Herz. 

Ich steh' allein, doch nicht allein, 
Denn hoch uber aller Fern' 
Da sieht das Aug' von meinem Gott 
Mich trostend, durch den einzigen Stern. 



7-16-'12. 



70 



A SINGLE STAR 

I knelt alone 'mid deepening gloom, 

The blight of doubt was in my soul. 
Deep, deep it burned like glowing coal, 

For there I knelt beside the tomb 
Of one whose life had been so dear to me 

That when he died it seemed as tho 
All, all was changed that once had so 

Completely filled and fixed my f antacy. 

w I raised my eyes, a sjngle star 

Smiled calmly down upon my strife; 
I saw the gates of doubt unbar, 

And thru them throbbed the thrill of life. 
For all the ages past and yet to be 

Shone thru that single star's eternity. 
7-21,-'12. 



71 



THE SLUMBER VILLAGE 

The little village lies in slumber 
And all the streets are still. 

The sleepy watchman makes his rounds 
Without a thot of ill. 

The little village lies in slumbers, 
There's not a sound or sigh, 

Save where the cricket chirps his cheer 
And the brooklet babbles by. 

The little village lies in slumbers, 
And now and then the trees, 

Bend softly o'er their birdful nests, 
In lullabying symphonies. 

The little village lies in slumber, 

But the big moon does not sleep. 

Yet sparingly her stars she numbers 
While she and they their vigil keep. 



8-20X12. 



72 



8-21-'12. 



THE NIGHT IS DARK 

The night is dark, and far and near 
The hush of midnight broods secure. 
No sigh arrests my waiting ear, 
No song imparts its music pure. 

The night is dark. I stand alone 
Where oft in girlhood's joy I stood. 
No brooding then my thots had known, 
No bitterness my soul withstood. 

The night is dark. Why should I doubt 
Where once I could so freely trust? 
And yield my soul without 
A fear, to Him who still is just? 



73 



TO MY FATHER 

Sadly smiles the wan, descending sun 

Across the landscape. The distant hills in anguish 

Lift their heads. The day begins to languish: 

He feels his melancholy duty done. 

A sympathizing murmur has begun 

To stir the grasses. The noisy crows in pity 

Cease to chatter. The sombre "Silent City" 

Speaks. The mourner hears those accents dumb; 

She cannot shed a tear. Too deep 

Was Love, to wish to mar that mournful peace, 

"Let those who did not know thy struggles, weep; 

I cannot but joy at thy release; 

And lonely tho my life must henceforth be, 

In consecration will I mount to thee." 



4-4-12 



74 



ODE TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER 

Too much, too much, at length the great heart broke. 

At length the fettered soul was freed 

To bask in immortality! 

And when that noble spirit woke 

In the Great Unknown 

Where earthly cares were flown, 

We felt his mortal frame grow chill, 

We saw his beating breast grow still; 

And that heavy, long-borne yoke 

Fell, before the Father's will. 

Mournfully weep, widowed mother; 

Manfully bear thy grief, brother; 

Sister, weep with me : 

Weep most mournfully — 

The father we so loved is gone, 

Forever from this earth is gone. 

Weep most mournfully! 

Slowly, solemnly, sounds the bell! 

Heavily tolls the funeral knell! 

The village mourns, 

Deeply mourns! 

Wearily winds the wintry way 

To where the earth heaves cruelly, 

Heaves its greedy, yellow clay. 

Empty, empty, empty, 

Are the house, and the hearth, and the home; 

Empty, and drear, and desolate, 

Like a school with the children gone. 



7 5 



With heads, dull, and mournful, 
Deep pain in our hearts all day, 
And at night it seems when all is still, 
That our hearts would ache our lives away. 

My stricken mother seems so lost, 

My sisters weep with me, 

My noble brothers bear their grief 

With manly sympathy; 

But all are weary, weary, weary, 

Like vessels tossed at sea. 

O hark ! I hear his step ; but no, 
'Twas but my feverish fancy walking 
O'er my wistful memory. 
O list! I hear him speak so PLAINLY; 
In vain! 'Twas but another, talking, 
That sounded like his voice to me. 
Awake, my father's coming! heart, 
'Twas but the night-wind rocking 
In yonder sympathizing tree. 

Gone ! my father gone ! 
It cannot, cannot be! 

He has left us, 

Has bereft us 
Of his ready sympathy. 
We leaned upon him all too much; 
We loved him all too dearly; 
And now we know that passions such 
Were selfish, all too clearly. 
In joy and pain we waited for the touch 
Of his response, the re-echo of his heart. 

The cruel world was hard and cold, 
His nature was too noble for it. 

76 



The cheer he could alone uphold, 

Had soulless mockery cast o'er it. 

Thpse he loved, misunderstood; 

And those he trusted, lied: 

All seemed to think he never could 

Be tempest-tossed, and tried. 

With truthless slander they abused him, 

With nameless vices they accused him, 

Until the love that they refused him 

Broke his heart; and then he died. 

He has gone: it is best! 
God knows how he struggled in vain! 

God knows how he needs those ages of rest 

And freedom, from sorrow and pain. 
He has gone: it is best! 

He has gone to his rest! 
His life's weary struggles are o'er! 
Tho once I repined, 
I now am resigned; 
My tears will not flow any more. 
Let the dark close upon him, 
Let the flowers repose upon him, 
Fall, O fall, ye feathered flakes! 

Fall and fold him, 

Gently hold him, 

Nature, to thy breast! 

In thy sacred rest, 

As a mother gently tifekes! 

Only God will judge him now; 
Man will not begrudge him now, 
All the honor that he gained 
And the love that he sustained. 



11 



From earth he has gone forever, 
Given back to his Giver. 
He, whom we trust- 
He, only, is just, 

His judgements can falter never: 
He saw all the struggles within and without; 
He witnessed the wars twixt faith and doubt; 
He nurtured the generous boy, 
And witnessed the worshipful joy 
In nature, and all that was best 
In man or even in beast. 
He knows how the tempter lashed 
That noble, generous soul; 
He knows what sorrows dashed 
As mighty breakers roll. 
He knows how Love forsook, 
How disappointment shook 
That true and trusting soul. 
He knew the boy, the youth, the man, 
As only a Heavenly Father can, 
Knew the mind's full breadth of view, 
Knew the heart so true, so true 
True to friend, to child, to wife, 
True to all, worth while in life! 

Father, we to Thee commend him, 
Commend the soul that once Thou gavest. 
Like Thy child Thou wilt befriend him, 
The spirit Thou in mercy savest. 

Then let the gentle flakes enfold him, 
Let the lap of nature hold him. 
Wide the wintry whiteness winds, 
Soulful as the peace he loved; 



78 



Softly every sunbeam shines, 
Like the joy his presence moved. 



1912. 



Peace, peace, silent, soulful peace! 
Deeper than the winter snows, 
Softer than a child's repose 
A fettered soul's deserved release 
Peace, uninterrupted Peace! 




79 



FROM THE HILLTOP 

The world is wide and wonderful 

As far as I can see. 
The world is big and bountiful 

And all her wealth is free. 
Ah, free and far as the evening star, 

And fair and calm as she. 
Where the waves deliver the far-flowing river 

To the farther foaming sea. 

O, out on the briny ocean, 

Where the huge ships come and go, 
And the waves extend their emotion 

In angry overflow. 
I wonder how the sailor 

Can sing and sing of the sea; 
And laud his ship, tho he hail her, 

To perilous liberty. 

Perhaps he trusts the surging sea 

Because he loves her so; 
Perhaps his heart is as wild as she 

And his soul as full of woe. 
And it seems as tho he goes not 

For the inlands lesser ills, 
Just because he knows not 

The beauty of the hills. 

The Hills, O how I love them 

In sunset's golden glow; 
With only the heavens above them, 

And the wide-winged valleys below. 



80 



And a beck'ning angel's beauty 
On their summit's lofty brow 

Smiling: "All this I give thee, 
If at my feet thou'lt bow." 

And we, tho only half understanding, 
Bow low at the angel's feet; 
Then suddenly our souls expanding 

With the soul of the angel meet, 
And all resigned we yield us 

To the angel's close embrace, 
And we find that the wings that shield us 

Belong to the Angel of Peace. 

Peace! the joy of communion 

With Nature's intangible Peace, 
With indissolvable union 

Twist Nature's and Man's deep Peace. 
Ah, sweet and pure and hill-like sure 

Is the Peace that comes to me ; 
And when I yielded and the angel shielded, 

'Twas a wonderous victory. 



9-15-'12. 



«£ 



81 



TO A SWALLOW AT TWILIGHT 

So free, so fair, so far, 

Almost I wonder what you are 

Away above the hazy height 

Of twilight, where celestial stillnesses unbar 

The dewy deeps of night, 

And angels beckon to the evening star, 

Thou art so free, so, fair, so far. 

So far, so free, so fair, 

Almost T wish I could be there 

With thee, thou "Winged Worshipper of Light," 

Where petty seems each earthly care 

And stars are master of the night; 

Close, close to heaven we would dare 

To wander, so far, so free, so fair. 

So fair, so far, so free, 

So close to heaven's eternity, 

On the dusky depths of evening floating 

As on a waveless sea, 

Up there, where speaking silence is devoting 

All her soulful ecstacy 

To thee, so fair, so, far, so free. 



9-18'-12. 



82 



9-19-'12. 



THE NIGHT IS OVER 

Thank God the night is over, 
And whate'er the day may bring, 
It can be nothing when compared 
With a night of suffering. 

Hands that must not work or struggle, 
Eyes that must not see, 
And twitching nerves that toss the body 
In unrelenting agony. 

A mind, a mind that will not rest 
Even tho the body sleeps! 
Ages back and ages forward 
Wandering, wading thru the deeps. 

A heart, that pained intruder! 

What of rest its passions rob! 

Not all the thots of all the ages 

Can ache like one, pure, deep heart-throb. 

And the soul's immortal grappling 
With thots its own, yet not its own; m 
Trembling, mounting, waiting, kneeling 
Before the everlasting throne. 

Thank God the night is over! 
But for this frail and faltering frame, 
I would there were no morning 
That soul her right might claim. 



83 



LONELY 

O, is there none in all his wanderings wide 

Will stop and strive to understand? 

God, is there on all this wistful side 

Of dead mortality, this naked strand 

Of ashen hope, no sympathizing soul 

To soothe and to inspire? will forever 

Those who can and those who have, withhold; 

And those who cannot, vex with vain endeavor? 

Is it the heights are steep and but a few 

Can come, where lonely I cannot depart? 

Is love too deep to be responded to? 

Must those who wed her, live alone with Art? 

Then God, since what Thou gavest is sublime, 

Give, too, Thy strength and grace to bide Thy time. 



11-26-12. 



84 



MY LITTLE CHARGE 

My little charge is fast asleep, 
Unstrained his breathing seems; 
Yet now and then his slumbers deep 
Are thrilled by childish dreams. 



TO FREDERICKE ON HER TWENTY-THIRD 
BIRTHDAY 

When Mem'ry clings like ivy 
To an image crumbling low, 
And suns its tiny, twining tendrils 
In Love's descending deep'ning glow; 
When it seems all have forgotten, 
All that Love and Hope still claim, 
Then pluck a sweet For-get-me-not 
And think how she received her name. 
ll-27-'12 



85 



ll-28-'12. 



TO REV. A. W. B. 
(On Hearing of His Severe Illness) 

When we shall part in the valley, 
It may mean a long good-bye; 
And few may heed the heartache 
And few may hear the sigh. 

And thou mayest go before I do, 
Or I may go before thou; 
Or it may be the merciful Father 
Will spare us both, just now. 

But whene'er the one is summoned, 
Whom first the angels find — 
'Twill be a day of mourning 
To the one that's left behind. 

And the years of lonely waiting 
May be many and weary and long; 
But when we meet — 'twill be forever. 
In glory and sunshine and song. 

When we shall part in the valley, 
Short and sharp the pain will be, 
But when we meet on the hilltop, 
'Twill be for Eternity. 



B6 



HIGHLAND WINTER 

Majestic lift the hills their hoary heads, 

And the everlasting heaven's stoop to kiss them. 

Sublimely reverent the sunbeams smile 

And send their winter warmness o'er the Earth. 

So lightly do they lie upon the boughs 

Of naked, down-embraced trees, that e'en 

The little feathery flakes are not offended 

At their lodging there, but smile and send 

Their silv'ry sparkle in response. And lo! 

For marbled miles they're diamonded with light. 

On, on, the mounded whiteness stretches; 

And calm and pure and sweet the eloquence 

Of stillness speaks, and answers low and clear 

The inner, sweeter stillness of the soul. 

No sigh, no sound is heard, save where the hush 

Of Peace and Purity breathe softly free 

The breath of still but perfect harmony 

Upon an inner ear that hears and knows. 

And whiteness, whiteness, whiteness everywhere, 

Save here and there a purple shadow lurking; 

And here and there a rosey^ sunset's glow. 

Peace, so deep, so true that e'en the blue jay 
Dare not scream upon these hallowed heights. 
O Peace, profound and passion-perfect Peace, 
So vast, so still, so speaking eloquent; 
Too deep, too deep for art's o'er- taught expression; 
Too heart-harmonious for all but one 
Musician, and He the Master Music-Maker, 

87 



Who needs nor harp, nor flute, nor song to send 
His sweetest strains unto an aching heart. 

O poor unguided poet's pen, be still. 
Thou canst not add, thou canst not e'en detract 
From such profound and perfect poetry; 
And so, be still, be still; let Him whose numbers 
Need no pen, whose landscape needs no canvas, 
Speak, in His unspeaking eloquence. 
12-7,-'12. 




OUR ALL-IN-ALL 

Thou Great Founder of Eternal Truth, 
Whose Word is Law, Whose Law is Love, whose Love 
Is everlasting; from Thy right hand 
The Universe suspended hangs. The sun 
Sends forth its fire, the moon its dreams. The still 
Stars wend their ordered way thru vastnesses 
Of time and space too big for comprehension. 
Without a halt or jar, or hesitation 
The little earth within its little orbit 
Swings round and round thru countless counted aeons, 
And every tiny creature on her breast 
Is nurtured by her tenderness; and all, 
Great Maker of Thy changeless laws, thru Thee; 
As effortless as little children smile, 
Or stars in calmness, comfort radiate. 

We little nothings, who are we 
That in our arrogance we dare to say 
"There is no God," or even doubt Thy love 
Because we understand it not? Of old 
Thy children, overawed, accepted all 
Thy works as one great manifestation 
Of Thine omnipotence, and meekly trusted 
Nature, tho they understood her not, 
Because Thou wert her Maker. But now we pry 
Into Thy sacred secrets and, when we but 
Imperfectly detect thy "Nature's Laws," 
We pride ourselves so much on our ' discoveries" 
That, all too often, we reject, because 

89 



We think we understand, nor stop to see 
The Cause of all the "causes" we have found. 
Thou greatest Righter of our greatest wrongs, 
Be patient yet a little while with thy 
Poor children. The day will come when "every knee 
Shall bend and every tongue confess thy name." 
We grope, we toil, we think, we hesitate, 
We pride ourselves on progress, but when at last 
True Wisdom holds her own, then all shall know 
That Thou art Love and Law and Truth in one. 
5-15X13. 




90 



7-31-'12 



8-l-'15. 



WEHMUTH 

Du Abendstern, du Abendstern, 
So rein, so ruhig, so Menschenfern, 
Was siehst von deiner stillen Hoh' 
So sanft mir in mein stummes Weh? 
Du truer Trouster, weist du dann 
Wo mein Seele leitet' ran? 
Ich selber fuehle nur den Schmerz, 
Die Uhrsach' kennet nicht mein Herz. 



<£ 



DIE MENSCHENSEELE 

Ihr Stern' was meint euer helles Funkeln 
Dort oben in der tiefen dunklen, 

Dunklen, tiefen Nacht? 
Auf Erden herrschet suesse Stille, 
Im Himmel herrschet Gottes Wille, 

Ueber der Sternenpracht. 

Ich steh' hier unten so allein 

Vor euch, ihr Stern', so stumm, so klein, 

So klein und willenlos. 
Doch meine Seele schwinkt sich weit 
Zum Schoepfer eu'rer Herrlichkeit, 

So klein, und hoch, so grosz. 



91 



THE EVENING STAR AT CHRISTMAS TIME 

Lo, what a blaze of wondrous peace is that? 
It streameth forth from yonder hallowed heights 
Where stillness reigns and yet celestial music 
Swells and keeps the swerving constellations 
In harmony. "Glory, glory, glory" 
Says the stillness, "Glory be to God on High 
And on this white and waiting earth, so still 
In wrapt expectancy, let Peace have sway, 
And calm Good-will be unto every creature." 
O wasteful War, O stinging Strife, Lust 
And Greed and poison-passioned Envy, cease; 
O petty voice of Social Caste be dumb, 
For what a rude, discordant note may fall 
From thy cold lips, which are too ignorant 
Of human nature's highest right to speak 
With misunderstanding. Today no great or small, 
No high or lowly live apart in hovel 
And in hall, but all are one within 
The Christmas spirit; Love hath ruled out Hate 
To-day and white-winged Peace embraceth Love; 
For Christ is born again each Christmas day. 
His Spirit searches every human breast, 
And hence this wondrous blaze of Peace strives on. 
This glorious star of yonder midnight heights, 
Burns out its deep celestial fire of Peace 
And makes of every heart a Bethlehem. 

12-21-'12. 



92 



DAWN IN WINTER 

Lo, the last pale sickle of the moon 

Sinks slowly down into the snowy West 

And leaves a hush of solitude behind, 

A sad, sweet mingling of pain and peace 

Within the traveler's breast; but see, he turns, 

To gaze upon the rainbow-ribboned east 

Where tenderly the morning star still smiles, 

Yet slowly paleth into nothingness. 

And as she pales the rosy ribboned horizon 

Grows. Her rainbow brightens, broadens, breaks 

Into a thousand vivid variations 

Of hue and tint and light and harmony, 

Like bands of many-hued flowers they pile 

Against the enfathering freshness of the morning; 

And all the while the purple snowshadows 

Pale and dim upon the broad white meadows, 

Till e'en on rugged hills and shrub-edged roadsides 

Or along the winding waterways, 

They close and closer huddle each to each 

Until they all affrighted, timorous creep 

Away to hide within their safer day-haunts 

And leave unto their rosy followers 

Their broad, free night abodes. And broader, broader 

Grows the ever bright'ning band of brilliance, 

And slowly every rainbowed shade in triumph 

Yields itself unto the ever-broad'ning blaze 

Of rosy red that sends its rugged rays 

Across the peaceful landscape. And suddenly 

A beaming face peers shyly thru the glaze, 

93 



Then mounts and stands erect and far and wide 

Proclaims, "The dawn has yielded to the day." 

And rosy shadows golden grow, and every 

Silv'ry snowflake sparkles in the gold. 

The marble mantled trees to downy feathers 

Soften and every tiny down a little 

Candle is that lends its sparkling beams 

To make the morning brighter. And now the little 

Saucy sparrow chirps his cheery welcome, 

And the blue-jay, very lovely 'gainst 

The dazzling white and 'midst the sparkling jewels 

Proclaims aloud his gladness of the day. 

Withdraw, Muse, into thy nightly caverns, 
Where the witchery of moonlight fairies 
Plays from dusk to dawn and even dreams 
Are never scorned to nothingness, but each 
Is garmented with dewy moonbeams and wreathed 
With a crown of silv'r sparkling stars. 
Not so, not so, alas! the laughing morning, 
When cocks announce the wintry world to work 
Once more is dedicated, and sleighbells jingle 
Out their merriment. To work, to work, 
O white-clad world; to work while daylight lasts; 
But when the mystic night returns, come forth 
Once more, Muse, with moon and stars and dreams. 

12-31-'12. 



94 



O HEART OF MINE 

heart of mine, why dost thou struggle so? 
Thou wert not singled out for pain or woe. 
No mighty water ever rose unstirred 

Or unruffled flowed. 
No spirit ever traveled heavenward 

On a level road. 

O heart of mine, why dost thou falter so? 
One firm step can make a spirit grow. 
To waver or to wait is oft to lose 

A worthy, mighty end. 
Be steadfast, Heart, and let thy Father use 

His humble, earthborn friend. 

O heart of mine, why dost thou question so? 
Do thou thy best, the rest thy God must know 
And bit by bit He will reveal His plan 

If thou art worthy still. 
He's ruled aright since first the world began. 

My heart, do thou His will. 



7-17-'13. 



95 



BALLAD OF THE FISHER BOY 

It was a little fisher's boy lived by the river's side, 
His boat lay idly on the strand ; his net he floated wide. 
The daughter of the lumberman, she was so fair and 

sweet, 
Lived on the other side, you see, where she was hard to 

meet. 

It was a little fisher's boy that spied the pretty maid, 
As on a lovely summer's morn beside the stream she 

played. 
He saw her drop her dolly down into the winding stream, 
And then he heard a fearful noise that sounded like a 

scream. 

At once the little fisher lad he sprang into his boat 
And rowed swiftly to the spot where dolly was afloat. 
Hurriedly he found the doll; he seized her by the tresses^ 
And hastened so the little lass could give it her caresses. 

He hurried to the little lass with triumph in his eyes 
And gently gave within her arms the precious, dripping 

prize. 
She heeded not the cold, wet touch, scarce saw the ruined 

toy 
For all her beaming eyes could see was just the fisher's 

boy. 

''What means this here," a stern voice called. "Is this 
your Christmas dolly? 

I think you'd better come with me, my naughty, wilful 
Polly." 

And rudely did the mother take her weeping, shame- 
faced daughter, 

And left the startled fisher's boy wondering by the 
water. 

96 



"He only brot my dolly back," the little girl did cry; 
"And now you leave him standing there, nor let me bid 

good-bye." 
"Enough, I say enough today," the mother sternly said, 
And as a cruel punishment, put Polly off to bed. 

But from her chamber window high, the little maid looked 

down, 
And saw her gallant knight look up with merry eyes of brown; 
And thru the window wide, she sent a tiny, fluttering note. 
"I dropped my doll to make you come," was all that Polly 

wrote. 




97 



ON RECEIVING A BOUQUET OF PANSIES WHILE AT 
THE EITEL HOSPITAL 

Pretty pansies, dipped in dew, 
Baby kissed their petals true; 
Mother picked them with a prayer 
Breathed upon the morning air. 

Fairy flowers, fresh and free, 
Sister brot them here for me. 
Every petal breathes her love 
Gently as the stars above, 

Breathe their silence into space, 
Breathe their peace in heaven's face, 
Dainty dreamers, every tint 
Seems a soul from heaven sent. 

Pansies stand for thot, they say, 
Purest thots they oft convey; 
Thots too deep for words to bear, 
Soft dissolved into a prayer. 
6-10/13. 



\ 



98 



MY LIFE IS LIKE A SUMMER ROSE 

My life is like a summer rose, 

So frail, so brief and so exposed; 

So tempest-tossed when scarcely born. 

At morn its head is proud and high, 

At eve its petals, faded lie, 

And they who pluck it, find a thorn. 

My life is like a summer rose, 
So gay, so fresh, so free from woes; 
So happy on its thorny throne. 
At morn it spreads its earthly charms, 
At eve it sleeps in Nature's arms, 
And He who gave it takes it home. 



8-2-'13 



99 



8-8-'13. 



DAS HUETLEIN IM WALDE 

Ich kenn' ein kleines Huetchen 
Im Walde ganz allein; 
Nur wenig Menchsen kennen's 
So traulich und so klein. 

Die grosze Weld die eilt vorbei, 
Hat nichts damit in Sinn; 
Und manchmal mem' ich beinah 
Die Menschen wollen nicht hin. 

Doch neimals werd' ich einsahm, 
Im Walde ganz allein; 
Denn dorten wohnet die Mutter, 
Das Huetlein ist mein Heim. 



100 



LULLABY 

Slumber on, my babe, my babe, 

Sweetly on my breast; 
All night long thy cradle song 

Shall sing my babe to rest, to rest. 

Lightly breathe my babe, my babe, 

Thru the quiet night ; 
From afar the midnight star 

Shall guard my babe so bright — so bright. 

Dream thou on, my babe, my babe, 
'Neath the dreamy moon, 
Let not the snares of daily cares 
Molest my babe too soon — too soon. 

Sleep thou on, my babe, my babe, 

As only babies sleep, 

My mother-love shall guard her dove, 

And angels watch shall keep— shall keep. 



8-20-'13 



101 



EVENING REVERIE 

The poetry of evening 

Steals softly o'er the sea, 

And a thousand day vexations 
Lose their hold on me, 

There's not a sound and not a sight 
But soothes with its charms, 

While the fragrance-laden breezes 
Awake in Nature's arms. 

And the dreamy stars are mirrored 

Upon a dreamy sea; 
While the poetry of the evening 

Steals softly over me. 



8-13-'13 



102 



Didst thou hear the patter of the rain 

On the pane? 
Ceaseless patter, patter, patter, like a childish chatter, 
chatter, 

Chattering in vain. 

Now it dashes down in wilder measure, 

Selfish pleasure! 
What can all this dashing mean, 
Dashing, splashing thru the green 

Emptying heaven's treasure? 

Not a sound of wild and crashing thunder 

Or lightning's plunder, 

Just the raindrops splashing, splashing, 

Growing wilder in their dashing, 

The dark dust under. 

But the wild and torrentlike commotion, o'er the ocean 
Cannot last 'for aye and ever, cannot last as if it never 

Would cease its motion. 
Soon the western sky grows bright once more, 
And the rain drops patter, patter as before, 
Cease their childish chatter, chatter; 

The rain is o'er. 

8-14-'13. 



103 



THE SNOW 

Out of the ashen weight of heaven 

Falls the snow; 
First flake by flake, then thicker, faster 

Does it grow; 
Till all the dizzy air 

Above, below 
Is dancing with the snow. 

Out of my happiness of heart 

Emotions flow, 
Low, little, aimless, fluttering 

As the snow, 
Till each with each is jostled 

To and fro; 
And I grow dizzy with their ceaseless flow. 

Deep, deep and breathless still 

Lies the snow; 
No sound, no sigh, no breath is stirring 

Here below; 
And deep, too deep for utterance 

Or overflow, 
My thots lie, silent as the snow. 



2-10- , 14. 



104 



MISUNDERSTOOD 

Out in the cold and the darkness alone, 

All alone, 
The councilor I valued, the friend that I loved 

Gone, gone. 
Not on a journey of pleasure or pain, 

From thence his return I might laud; 
Not into life with its losses and gain, 

A friend would not spare him that rod; 
Not to the land where the blessed ones reign ; 

Then would I yield him to God. 
But tossed from my life like a toy on the tide, 
Thrust from his heart with no heed for my pride ; 
Cast from his presence tho still at his side, 

I, in the cold and darkness alone, 

Stand with my friend and my councilor gone- 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 

2-17-'14. 



105 



4-29-'14. 



TRIOLET 

I had a friend, 

Have I her still? 
I COULD depend 

I had a friend; 
But in the end 

Will all be ill? 
I had a friend, 

Have I her still? 

I loved a friend, 

Have I been true? 
Did I pretend 

I loved a friend? 
Did self attend 

All love would do? 
I loved a friend 

Have I been true? 

I was a friend 

And love I would, 
Truth will defend 

I was a friend; 
Yet we in the end 

Misunderstood. 
I was a friend 

And love I would. 



106 



ON RECEIVING A BOUQUET OF TULIPS WHILE 
IN A SICKROOM 

Ye tulips of yellow, ye visions of joy, 

So gayly, so happ'ly your charms ye employ, 

So lightly, so sprightly your petals unfold, 

You lend all the sunshine my room dare not hold. 

Ye tulips of crimson, dark, passionate red, 
Too true to be daunted, too proud to be led. 
Your love-lips wide open, your dark lids aquiver, 
You shout it aloud, the praise of the giver. 

Lily-white and lily-fair, 

Fit to clasp in hands of prayer, 

Tulips white, ye quiet band 

Emblem of a better land ; 

Let your waxen lids droop low 

And tell of peace and after glow. 

3-22-'14. 



107 



SONNET 

Lone star, so peaceful in the quiet night, 
So unafraid of cloud or passing storm, 
So Christ-like lovely in thy steady light 
I long like thee my duty to perform. 
But thou art large amid the million fires. 
That feebly falter 'round thee once again, 
Almost I envy while my soul aspires, 
I am so little 'mongst the tribes of men. 
Yet e'en the star that feeblest seems to me 
May brightest to some other star appear, 
And, quenched tonight, its faint light still 

might be 
Aglow for ages on this planet here. 
Perhaps e'en I to some lone soul may worthy 

seem, 
And my faint light go struggling down time's 

steady stream. 
5-6-'14. 



FREE WILL 

Free Will? Ah, yes, and yet Divine Will, too, 

The twain must wedded be. 
Thru time, as man more perfect grows and true, 
They both will be more free. 
God's to allow and ours to do, 

And both to blend their powers, 
And God will make us free anew, 
For His Will will be ours. 
3-5-'14. 

108 



MY PILGRIM'S RIGHT - 

Just to be always doing some little thing for Thee, 
Just to be always finding some beautiful thing to see, 
Just to be always thinking what others have done for me, 
Just to be always watching for Love's opportunity, 
This is my prayer tonight. 

All that Thou canst make me, without my wanting the 

praise, 
All that Thou canst show me, that will not blind or daze, 
All that Thou canst give me, that I'll use in Thy chosen 

ways, 
All that Thou canst teach me, of simplicity and praise, 
This is my Pilgrim's Right. 

8-9-'14. 



109 



TO THE FIRST ROBIN 

Cheerie, cheerie, cheerie, chee! 
Sing O robin, sing to me. 
I grow stronger as I listen 
To thy gladsome melody. 

What a burst of wild surprise, 
What magic in thy music lies! 
Far into the evening twilight 
Let it rise and rise and rise. 

Like a blush of morning's splendor, 
Like a gush of passion tender, 
Like the ripple of a river 
Is the music that you render. 

Like a burst of pure emotion, 
Rising from the heart's devotion; 
Sweet and musical and clear 
Rings thy song o'er land and ocean. 

First the fond hopes of love, 
Like a message from above, 
Like the joy that stirs with peace, 
So thy notes my spirit move. 

Weary am I, very weary, 
Tired of the winter dreary; 



110 



Of its sickness and its cold, 
Bird, I need thy message cheery. 

Need the gladness thou canst bring, 
All the hope of youth and spring; 
All the courage of thy song, 
Let it ring and ring and ring. 

Let it bring to Earth new cheer, 
Ring with joy on every ear; 
With a convalescent buoyance, 
Let it fill the hearts that hear. 

Winter has been hard and long, 
Earthly creatures are not strong; 
All the courage thou canst lend us 
We would borrow from thy song. 

Wild the magic of thy glee; 
With contagion filleth me; 
Grateful am I for thy music, 
Cheerie, cheerie, cheerie, chee. 



Spring, 1914. 



in 



TO THE FATHER OF WATERS 

Thou calmer of my keenest cares, 

Thou disentangler of all snares 

That teach me passion unawares, 

On thy broad bosom's steadfast flow 

I cast my least, my deepest woe 

And trust that uncomplainingly 

Thou'lt heal the wound I cannot stay. 

My soul is sick, my heart is bare 

To all of passions outward snare; 

A thousand foes take anchor there. 

I sit and watch thy steady motion 

Onward, onward to the ocean 

Without hurry or commotion. 

A sense of peace steals over me, 

A peace I cannot understand; 

And yet I know 'tis born of thee 

And I extend my empty hand. 

Upon thy banks the wild flower springs. 

And to the oak the ivy clings; 

Thy bare, broad breast the robin wings, 

The water-weed its greenness flings; 

Upon the air the whistle rings 

And by thy side the child voice sings. 

The wheels of labor hum and whirr, 

The hearts of man with passion stir 

And life of feather and of fur 

Lives out its gladness and its pride, 

Is sad or happy at thy side. 



112 



Yet on thy steady murmurs go 

Thru summer's rain and winter's snow, 

Like tides of time thy waters flow, 

And broad and broader do they grow 

Until they reach the gulf below. 

What saint and savage by thy side 

Have sat in solitude or pride, 

The red man sulked with battle's loss, 

The whte man set the Saviour's cross, 

The black man dragged as slave across. 

The red, the white, the black, all three 

Saint and demon variously; 

The rush of labor, whirr of mills, 

The toil that saints and toil that kills. 

A million lamps with living splendor, 

To rival sunset's beauty tender; 

The roar of railroad, noise of car, 

A thousand, thousand sounds that jar; 

A thousand, thousand notes that soothe, 

Water rough and water smooth; 

Thy companions ever are. 

A hundred cities lean on thee; 

A thousand streamlets bend to sea, 

A million mortals drink of thee 

And thru a million, million years 

Watched by laughter and in tears, 

Thou flowest thru to eternity. 

When every joy has left me 
In bitter overflow, 
When courage has bereft me 
And faith is burning low; 
When dark and deep depression 



113 



Drags me to the earth; 

And hope gives no expression 

To Power's inner birth; 

When all my friends seem taken 

And all my foes seem nigh; 

When even love seems shaken, 

And even Truth a lie. 

Then to thee, O flowing river 

I come, I come and ne'er in vain; 

At thy shining feet deliver 

All my passions, all my pain. 

Momentary is the morning's splendor 
Soon o'er taken by the heat of day, 
Fragmentary every thrilling tender 
Touch of passion's inward earnest sway. 
Stars arise with twilight's tender shadows, 
Rise and watch to glow and fade again ; 
Dewdrops sparkle in the morning meadows 
But noon's impatience searches them in vain. 
Man himself with all his boastful brilliance 
Fades and falls in all his vain endeavor, 
But thou, majestic stream, unlike the millions 
Flowest, goest, glidest on thy course forever. 

In the toil and heat of day 
'Neath Ambition's upward sway, 
Close beside thee let me roam 
Hear thy gushing and thy flowing, 
See the busy boatman rowing, 
Watch the wavelets wash and foam 
Rippling toward their ocean home. 
Father of Waters, noble stream, 



114 



Let me work and let me dream 
Twixt me and my Alma Mater, 
I of both a loyal daughter. 
Let me pray and let me dream 
On thy banks that human seem. 
Only the stars can rival thee 
Father of waters, noble stream. 
5-21-'14. 




115 



SLAUGHTERED BABYHOOD 

Three hundred thousand babies dead? 
O God, it cannot, cannot be 
Thou didst give them but to take them, 
Thus to snatch them ruthlessly. 

O the tears that must have fallen, 
O the hearts that have been rent, 
As slowly down the aisles mourning 
Three hundred thousand mothers went. 

All the nation's future promise, 

All the hopes, all that comes 

With earnest toil, and thot, and prayer 

Lies latent in those little ones. 

And yet we let them droop and die, 
Die, without a chance to live. 
Do we trust that He who gave them 
Will never cease to give and give? 

Or do we launch their little lives 

Into this world of sin and strife, 

And trust that God will guard them safely 

Thru all the man-made snares of life? 

Up, up ye sluggards, think and live. 
God is here to help us still, 



116 



But He will never play our part, 
We are here to do His will. 

Blame not only nurse and doctor, 
Wound not a mother's broken heart. 
Hand in hand we all must labor, 
Each of us must do his part. 

Three hundred thousand babies dead! 
let their spirits rise again 
And plead, their baby arms uplifted, 
With the iron hearts of men. 



3-l-'14. 




117 



THE LAND OF WAR 

There is a land where the rivers run red 
And the fields are flooded with blood and tears; 
Where the living are damned compared with the dead, 
And the dead are piled like swine on their biers, 
The Land of War. 

There is a land where the kingly sword 
Is swung o'er the peasants' helpless head, 
Where the powerless die at their monarch's word, 
Nor know why they join the ranks of the dead, 
The Land of War. 

I know a place where the widows weep 
And the old and fatherless hungry go, 
Where yesterday's homes in a blasted heap 
Lie shattered forever, black and low, 

The Land of War. 

The land of religion and culture and light, 
With missionaries in every clime; 
The example of nations, the leader of right 
Has plunged into drunkeness, hunger and crime, 
In the Land of War. 

I know of peoples crazed with grief; 
And nations mad with sorrow and sin; 
And the life of virtue but frail and brief 
When the howling beast was wakened within, 
In the Land of War. 

118 



I've seen hate glare from the eyes of men, 
Each brother hunting the life of his brother, 
And the beast in man awakened again, 
And Lust and Murder racing each other 

Thru' the Land of War. 

I've seen the place where the Prince of Peace 
Is mocked and crucified again, 
Where twenty centuries of Heaven's grace 
Have lingered and smiled, as it seems, in vain 
On the Land of War. 

I know a country where hearts of men 
Will break, ere long, in penitent grief, 
Where the eyes of the blind will be opened again 
And the reign of lawlessness will be brief, ( 

E'en in the Land of War. 

For poverty, sickness and hunger will lead 
The proud and the lowly alike to the cross; 
And the meek and the haughty together will bleed 
And the poor and the rich will share the same loss 
In the Land of War. 

And there, at last, a common level 
For peasant and prince will soon be known, 
And all the seeming power of the devil 
Will vanish, when Truth comes to her own, 
In the Land of War. 

For error, at last, must destroy all error, 

And Truth will be antidote for sin. 

Then Love will succeed the reign of terror 



119 



And the Kingdom of GOD will be found within 
In that Land of War. 

Then Christ, triumphant, will rise over all 
And Bethlehem's angels will break forth new joy, 
And brother to brother will echo the call 
Of a love which war has no power to destroy 

In the Land of Peace. 
11-10-'14. 




120 



AN MEIN GELIEBTEN 

Ich liebe dich so innerlich, 
Und immer, immer mehr; 
Und waerest du mir genommen 
Die ganze Welt waer' leer. 

Mein ganzes Tuen und Sinnen 
Das klammert sich urn dich. 
Ich liebe dich vom Hertzen, 
So treu, so immerlich. 

Die boese Welt war ungerecht, 
Verdammet hat sie dich; 
Doch haben wir einander, 
Ihre Feindschaft kerret uns nicht. 

Das Leben lang liegt vor uns, 
Liegt vor uns, fro und klar; 
Was stoerret uns fremde Feindschaft? 
Wir sind einander nahe. 

Ein ernstes, frohes Leben 
An Lieb' und Arbeit reich, 
Das werden wir beide fuehrin, 
In Treu' und Streben gleich. 

Lasz alle Weld verdammen, 
Wird Freundschaft kalt und schen, 
Doch haben wir einander, 
Und bleiben einander treu. 



12-12,-'15. 



121 



12-16,-'15. 



TO G 

With a wish for a Merry Christmas, 
And a kiss for a Happy New year, 
And a whole heart full of passion 
For the one I hold most dear. 

'Tis a humble little gift, Love, 
But I give it with my heart. 
Take all, take all I have, Love; 
I could not give thee part. 



122 



TO MY LOVE 

The love thou bearest me, Love, 
Is for no worth of mine; 
Nor is it born of thee, Love, 
But of a Love Divine. 

The heart thou gavest me, Love, 
I spurned when first I met. 
But who resisteth thee, Love? 
Who could thy love regret? 

Thou wert so all-persistent, 
So all unselfish,, thou; 
And I, tho all-resistant; 
Before thy love must bow. 

Thou gavest me thy best, Love. 
My best I give to thee, 
To God we leave the rest, Love. 
He's Love to thee and me. 



12-15,-'15. 



123 



Oct., 1917. 



TRUTH 

The law that bid the wind be still, 
That did of old the Father's will, 
That healed the sick and raised the dead 
And gave God's needy children bread, 
Is still with His truth tenanted. 

The storms are stayed and stilled the flood 
Where'er God's law is understood. 
Where'er the truth that freedom spells 
Securely in man's bo&om dwells, 
And all the dross of sin dispells. 

Speak the word, thou child of God, 
To thee was given Truth's iron rod; 
Nor heat, nor cold, nor storm, nor shower, 
Can stay the coming of God's hour, 
Nor dwarf the allness of His power. 



124 



TO THE CHRISTIAN MOTHER 

Oh Mother, with thy little flock, 
The priceless gift of God made thine; 
Let not the noise of earth-born fears 
Drown out the voice of Love divine. 

Whate'er the seeming lack may be, 
Whate'er the tumult, loss or ill; 
God's living truth, in living flame, 
Leads thru thot's wildernesses still. 

The slave to sense may cringe or fear, 
The heathen, worship drug or stone; 
The Christian mother, unafraid, 
Entrusts to God her child, His own. 

There is no danger in God's world, 
No sickness, sin or need are there, 
Rise fearless o'er the clouds of sense 
And lo, Love reigneth everywhere. 

And in that omnipresent Love, 
God's little ones are ever blessed; 
Let Him be Father of His own, 
And in His Wisdom safely rest. 
Summer, '17. 



125 



A PRAYER 

Thou dost call me, gentle Father, 
Thru the worlds' tumultuous din, 
Still I hear thy voice, dear Father, 
Calling thru a voice within. 

All my warring sense outpouring, 
I surrender self and sin. 

Thou dost lead me, gentle Father, 

Lead me where I ought to go. 

With my hand in thine, dear Father, 

I will never weary grow 

Of the living and the giving 
Of Thy love's eternal flow. 

Thou dost watch me, gentle Father, 
Watch my nature's deepest bent; 
That, looking in Thy face, dear father, 
I can see thy whole consent; 

And my hurry and my worry 
May be lost in sweet content. 

Thou dost guide me, gentle Father, 
Guide me as Thou seest best; 
To that inward peace, dear Father, 
Where Thine in understanding rest. 
Sin denying, Truth applying, 
Onward, onward, in their quest. 



126 



Thou dost shield me, gentle Father, 
Shield me from earth's sin and shame; 
Shield me with thy love, dear Father, 
In the dear Redeemer's name. 

That His eternal life supernal 
Doth my refuge prove from pain. 

Thou dos't teach me, gentle Father, 
Teach me how to do and be: 
That I may at length, dear Father, 
A true reflection prove, of Thee. 

And my teaching and outreaching 
May bring others home to Thee. 



Revised, 1917. 




127 



ARMAGEDDON 

Where is the seat of the terrible conflict, 
Raging and howling on ocean and shore? 
What is the cause of the horrible combat, 
Writhing and storming in battle and war? 

"'Tis Kaiser, 'tis King, 'tis President; Czar," 
Angry and injured the masses all cry. 
"'Tis you in your ignorance holding us servants." 
Fiercely and firmly the rulers reply. 

"Tis this nation, that nation, this people, that," 
"'Tis Monarchy, Anarchy, Militant Force." 
'"Tis the Church not on duty, the School at recess." 
"'Tis some outward power misshaping our course." 

Each cursing the other, each hounding his brother; 
Men, in mad rush after fortune and fame, 
Are blindly condemning, are falsely accusing; 
None looking to Self for his share of the blame. 

And Self, the low tyrant, the many-horned monster, 
Is deluding the heart into hatred and strife; 
While up on the scaffold, the Truth of the Ages, 
Seems hanging suspended from honor and life. 

And ever the Dragon, the many-mouthed monster, 
The Serpent called sin is subtling his way; 

128 



Stealing the heart not suspecting his presence. 
Swelling his ranks in disguised display. 

Error, awake to its short-lived dominion, 
Fiercely is feigning a triumph today; 
The forces of evil, the ranks of the devil, 
Are drawn 'gainst each other in battle array. 

Louder and louder the battle is roaring. 
Fiercer and fiercer the fury and fight ; 
Each sees in his brother, the coward, the traitor; 
Each sees in himself the champion of right. 

Thicker and thicker the war clouds are gath'ring, 
Darker and darker encircles the gloom; 
Daily the Beast to the World is exposing 
A self-willed humanity, facing its doom. 

And the heart, the poor heart, in its yearning for freedom, 
Slowly is groping its way to the light; 
Still clinging to pleasure, to ease and to power, 
Yet hating their tyranny, meanness and might — 

There is the seat of the terrible conflict, 
There are the issues of death and of life; 
There is the call to honor and manhood, 
Down in the heart is the seat of the strife. 

The roar of the cannon, the whirr of the bullet, 
The clash of the sword and the thunder of gun; 
They show but the sham of human endeavor; 
The fight they expose, in the heart must be won. 



129 



Each has his share in the terrible conflict; 
Each bears some blame for the God-cursing war; 
The sin of all ages in long fermentation, 
Has burst the frail coverings that hide it no more. 

On the selfdamning battle-field, thund'ring and bleeding, 
But centers the tumult. so world-wide to-day. 
The vict'ry there needed, is but the beginning 
That quickens the spirit and brightens the way. 

Revenge cannot save us, hate cannot heal us, 
Nor the endless outpouring of the hot blood of youth; 
'Tis Self must be conquered, the heart must grow purer; 
Vict'ry can come but through Love and through Truth. 

Then fight, mortal man, fight for your freedom; 
Conquer the self that has led you astray; 
Up, up, where the heights of true manhood are waiting; 
And the light of the Christ illumines the Way. 

Spring, 1918. 



130 



H. T. S. 

I thot they would not find him, 
Up here in this mountain wild; 
Nor leave me alone behind him, 
Me, and my unborn child. 

I hoped they could win without him, 
Win this terrible war. 
'Tis selfish to grieve about him, 
But my heart is so heavy and sore. 

We left the great world behind us, 
For our own little world of love; 
For the ties that so closely bind us 
Were born in Heaven above. 

A few brief months of Heayen, 
And then the dread war call came; 
And bravely we have striven 
To answer in freedom's name. 



Summer, 1918 



131 



IF 

Parody on Kipling's "If 

If you can keep your peace while all around you 
Are talking war with hatred in their eyes; 
If you can know the Truth and not let lies confound you, 
Tho all the world is uttering those lies; 

If you can love but not let love confuse you, 
If you can know and make your knowledge count; 
If you can see a subtle foe abuse you, 
Yet firmly live the Sermon on the Mount; 

If you can live so deep in love that hatred cannot reach you 
And so destroy your foe by making him your friend; 
If you can know that none but God can teach you, 
And so rely upon His Wisdom to the end; 

If you can do each seeming, petty duty, 

With that same largeness called for by the nobler one; 

Your's is God's peace in all its sacred beauty, 

And what's more, you'll help win Truth's war, my son. 



Fall, 1918. 



132 



I found a soul the other night, 
And she was wondrous fair; 
I scarce can see how such divineness 
Can be written there. 

I once had looked thru mortal mind 
Where sin and error lies; 
But when I sought the spiritual, 
The scales fell from my eyes. 

And lo, I gazed upon that soul 
That once seemed rude and bare, 
And thru my spirit eyes I saw 
God's image mirrowed there. 



Fall, 1918. 



133 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 

Dec. 17th, 1807— Sept. 7th, 1892. 

"And the wood-thrush of Essex, you know whom I mean, 
Whose song echoes round us while he sits unseen, 
Whose heart-throbs of verse through our memories thrill 
Like a breath from the wood, like a breeze from the hill, 

"So fervid, so simple, so loving, so pure, 
We hear but one strain and our verdict is sure — 
Thee cannot elude us — no further we search, — 
"lis holy George Herbert cut loose from his church! 

"We think it the voice of a seraph that sings — 
Alas ! we remember that angels have wings. — 
What story is this of the day of his birth? 
Let him live to a hundred! We need him on earth!" 

Thus sings the poet Holmes and indeed we know 
whom he means for of whom but our Quaker poet could 
such words as these be spoken? Who else of all those, 
who have gained a secure place in the great halls of 
fame, was quite ''So fervid, so simple, so loving, so pure." 

Born in the quiet Merrimack Valley near Haverhill, 
Massachusetts, with "one river valley, one glimpse of 
the sea, and one mountain range with the beautiful 
lakes nestled among the hills," forming the complete 
horizon line for his boyish eyes to rest, and his poetic 
soul to feed upon and reared there in the pure, peaceful 
atmosphere of a quiet, Quaker, farm home, whose ances- 
try for many generations back had been noted for 

134 



their deep, true, religious principles, what wonder that 
the boy poet whose natural instincts were so pure and 
so true should remain true and pure to the last? What 
wonder that the born singer should choose for his songs 
such as he did and sing them with that unchanging sweet- 
ness and simplicity to the very end? 

Of his boyhood life who could give a better picture 
than he himself portrays in his well loved "Bare-foot 
Boy," where he says: 

"Blessings on thee, little man — 

Barefoot boy, with cheeks of tan 

With thy turned-up pantaloons, 

And thy merry whistled tunes; 

With thy red lips, redder still, 

Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 

With the sunshine on thy face 

Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; 

From my heart I give thee joy! 

I was once a barefoot boy!" 

Of his boyhood home who could give us a better, a 
truer description than he himself in his Winter Idyl, 
^Snow-bound"? He pictures for us there the whole 
family gathered about the wide kitchen hearth on a 
winter's night when without there were "no clouds 
above, no earth below, A universe of sky and snow." 
How peacefully they all must have sat there together! 
''Shut in from all the world without, 
We sat the clean-winged hearth about; 
Content to let the north wind roar, 
In baffled rage at pane and door, 
While the red logs before them beat 
The frost-line back with tropic heat; 



135 



What matter how the night behaved? 

What matter how the north wind raved? 

Blow high, blow low, not all the snow 

Could quench their hearthfire's ruddy glow." 
His education was a meagre one. Until he was 
nineteen all of actual schooling he had received con- 
sisted in what he got in the district school, when the work 
at home permitted. His father, as he himself said, was 
a "prompt, decisive man." He had been a farmer and 
he meant that his son should be a farmer also. When, 
therefore, certain editors in the neighborhood to whose 
columns the boy had already contributed poems, urged 
the father to send John to the Haverhill academy, it 
was only through the influence of the gentle mother who 
was in entire sympathy with her son, that the plans 
were made to materialize. He spent two winters at 
the academy and this completed his education so far as 
going to school was concerned. But he was all his life 
a student and what he learned by reading and studying 
in after years, together with that boyhood "knowledge 
never learned of schools," made him one of the best 
examples w have of a "self-made man" among all of 
our literary men. So far had his self education gone, 
that in 1858, when he was fifty-one years old, he was 
made over-seer of Harvard College and later received 
her degree of L. L. D. He was also made trustee of 
Brown University. 

But Whittier lived at a time when all this great 
country was afire with the one live question of slavery; 
at a time when not only most of our greatest literary 
men but also many of our greatest statesmen lived; at 
a time when the minds of all our greatest people were 
centred in one great problem; at a time when all the 
best energies of the country were bent towards 
the one central thing and working either for or 

136 



against it — Slavery! And what in our quiet Whittier was the 
stronger, his Quaker love for peace or his human love for right 
and the freedom of a fellow creature; the struggle for mere 
literary fame or the hard earned right to be called the first 
among our great abolitionists? He himself answers the ques- 
tion simply and definitely in these words: — "I set a higher 
value on my name as appended to the anti-slavery declaration 
of 1833 than on the title page of any book." None of the 
leading poets of that day (and there were not a few) were 
afraid to utter a sincere word in the cause of slavery, but on 
the other hand none of them but Whittier were quite willing 
to sacrifice all of their time and all of their talent in a cause 
so intensely, so universally unpopular and it is but right that 
to him should have been given the name of "The Slavery 
Poet." 

His rousing anti-slavery lyrics began early to appear in 
public papers and when he was scarcely twenty W. L. Garrison 
who was then editing "The Philanthropist" in Boston, was 
attracted by them and offered Whittier the editorship of his 
paper which he accepted. From then until about 1840 he edited 
many papers and became an influential journalist having 
newspaper connections in Massachusetts, New York, Phila- 
delphia and Washington. 

When a young man, Whittier's keenest interests seemed 
to run along political rather than literary lines. His ambition 
was to be a statesman rather than a poet and had his health 
been less delicate he very probably would have succeeded in 
his ideas for all thru life he kept in close touch with the leading 
questions of the day and, even as an old man, his opinion 
was sought by the leading statesmen of the country. 

Among his firiest anti-slavery lyrics were, "The Yankee 
Girl," "The Hunters of Men," "The Farewell," "Massachu- 
setts to Virginia," "The Christian Slave," and "Clerical 
Oppression." So forceful indeed were some of his verses that 

137 



it is said their author was dragged through the streets of Bos- 
ton three times by some mad mob. Once at Newburyport he 
wae| as he puts it, "assailed with decayed eggs, sticks and light 
missils." In Philadelphia his printing office was sacked and 
burned. 

By all this can be seen how intense and bitter was the 
struggle and what staunch courage it took for any man to cling 
so strongly and so boldly to his principles. But Whittier was 
true to the very last and his cry for freedom was never hushed 
until the war was ended and peace and freedom for all re- 
stored. Then he modestly retired to his quiet home at Ames- 
bury, only a few miles from his boyhood farm home, which 
had been gold at the death of his father. Here he spent the 
remainder of his life in peace and gratitude to God for the 
great work He had wrought in the nation. Here he made his 
name which had so deservedly become national in a national 
cause, world-known by his sweet, simple songs, some of which 
shall live as long as the English language. 

It was here at Amesbury that most of his works, which 
are and ever will remain of standard value, were written. 
Here appeared "Snowbound," "Among the Hills," his dearly 
loved "Song of Labor, " "The Barefoot Boy," "Skipper Ire- 
son's Ride," "In School Days," "Telling the Bees," "Gone," 
and many of those deeply, beautifully spiritual lyrics, as "The 
Eternal Goodness," "My Psalm," "The Minister's Daugh- 
ter," and many others for which Whittier's name seems to 
stand first and foremost even now. Those are indeed sweet, 
simple poems which poured out from his ever earnest, almost 
child-like soul, that rare, deep faith which has encouraged and 
strengthened so many. It has been said that "The moral in 
Whittier predominates over the aesthetic, the reformer over 
the artist," and this is shown in almost every line he wrote. 
He sits now in these latter years of his life in his quiet retreat 
and from there his simple songs gush forth upon the busy 

138 



world, even as a rare, refreshing spring at times gushes forth 
in a dusty, noisy city. He finds now 

"That care and trial seem at last 
In memory's sunset air 
Like mountain ranges overpassed 
In purple distance fair." 

He seeks ever the best in mankind and is willing to ex- 
cuse rather than reprove the wrongs of his fellow creatures, 
for according to his principles: 

"It is not ours to separate 
The tangled skein of will and fate, 
To show what metes and bounds should stand 
Upon the soul's debatable land, 
And between choice and Providence, 
Divide the circle of events; 

But He, who knows our frame, is just. 

Merciful and compassionate 

And full of sweet assurances 

And hope for all the language is 

That He remembreth we are dust." 

His faith in God is ever true and unbroken for he says: 

"I know not what the future hath 

Of marvel and surprise, 
Assured alone that \\fe and death 

His mercy underlies. 

"I know not where His islands lift 
Their fronded palms in air; 

139 



I only know I cannot drift 

Beyond His love and care." 

Then just because he lacked in grandeur what others 
may have had, just because he preferred sense to sound, and 
simplicity and sweetness to thrilling eloquence, should we 
love him less? It is a beautiful thing to be able to appreciate 
the works of these great men but there are hours in your life 
and mine when we feel as Longfellow did when he said: 

"Come read to me from some poem, 
Some simple and beautiful lay, 

That shall soothe this restless feeling 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

"Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 

Through the corridors of Time. 

"For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor, 
And to-night I long for rest. 

"Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, 

As showers from clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelid start; 

"Who, through long days of labor, 
And nights devoid of ease, 

140 



Still heard in his soul the music 
Of wonderful melodies. 

"Such songs have the power to quiet 
The restless pulse of care 

And come like the benediction 
That follows after prayer." 




141 



LOVE 

'Love is like a river, 
Swelling as it goes; 
As an open giver 
But the richer grows." 

Thus has someone described Love, and, as far as it goes, 
this description does very well. But Love is not merely like 
a river. It is a river, a river of emotions, the purest and 
broadest and deepest that ever flowed into the great sea of 
Eternity. 

But Love is not merely an emotion, or a stream of emo- 
tions. It is more. Paul says, "If I have not Love I am noth- 
ing.' ' If that be true, Love must represent not merely the 
highest and best that is in man, but it must be life itself, 
for as long as life still lasts, we cannot say, "I am nothing." 
Love, then, is life. 

But there are things greater even than life itself. Christ 
says, "Every good and perfect gift cometh of God." John 
says, "God is Love." In other words it is Love that is the 
Source of all that is highest and purest and best. Love, then, 
must be just what Drummond called it, "the summum bonum," 
"the Greatest Thing in the World." 
April, 1912. 



142 



"AUNTY" 

Everybody calls her "aunty"; everybody loves her and 
everybody considers himself her special friend. Her kind, 
sweet face and sunny smile are a standing invitation to all 
who lack a friend; and her bright, loving manner seldom fails 
to attract even the smallest child. In her clear, blue eyes the 
"due of youth" still sparkles and sometimes overflows, tho 
the locks that crown her head are white as winter snows. Her 
thin and slightly drooping form, as well as her womanly face, 
bear traces of mental and physical suffering, seldom exper- 
ienced by humankind. In eighteen years she has not known 
what it is to feel entirely well, yet her invariable cheerfulness, 
and sometimes even gayety, shame almost everyone who 
comes in contact with her. She has no children or grand- 
children to brighten her old age yet she is seldom allowed to 
be alone. Old and young, great and small, wise and "other- 
wise" flock to her for entertainment, advice or comfort and 
no one ever goes away disappointed; no one ever seeks her 
in vain. Thus with many trials and no complaints, with 
aching heart and smiling lips "aunty" has made herself the 
center of the community. 

xi-i,-'05. 



143 



HAYMAKING 

"All the hills stretched green to June's unclouded skies" 
And all the meadows fair before my dreamy eyes. 

Suddenly I was attracted by the sound of voices and I 
stopped short in my walk as well as in my dreaming to find 
myself surrounded by mounds of sweet-smelling hay in a 
large, green meadow. Further on towards the center of the 
meadow, a heavy ox-team stood with several men on and about 
it, busily adding more of the field's richest treasure to the al- 
ready large load. Others again were kept busy in carrying 
the smaller mounds to one large pile in the center, while still 
another was managing a large hay-rake. Every now and 
then someone would call to the oxen, or say something, at 
which all the rest would send out a hearty peal of laughter. 
In the top of a gracefully spreading elm several crows were 
cawing to each other, while from a neighboring thicket a 
cuckoo sent out his doleful call. Thus the sounds of "nature 
and human nature" harmoniously blended. Far beyond ail 
this, wooded hills with their wealth of shade and sunshine 
were picturesquely climbing to the gorgeous splendor of a sun- 
set sky. For a moment I gazed in silent admiration on 
the wide scene, dwelling on each varied detail. Then, as my 
eyes fell once more on the busy, happy workers, laboring in 
this most beautiful of all art-galleries, nature, the thots of 
Grey came to me stronger than any others and I found my- 
self repeating very earnestly, Ah! "Let not ambition mock 
their useful toil." 

XI-14,-'05. 



144 



A SMALL VILLAGE 

I paused in my pleasant ramble, just before reaching 
the summit of the commanding hill I was ascending, to rest 
and to look down into the little village at my feet, which could 
perhaps be better observed from this point than anywhere 
else. It was a strange village to my American eyes, so differ- 
ent from any I was accustomed to seeing at home; for it was 
in the far-off country of Germany that I stood at this early 
morning hour, gazing and meditating on what I saw. The 
red-roofed houses that stretched before me were quaint and 
old-fashioned and old, many of them standing, perhaps, over 
a hundred years in the self-same place they occupied now. 
They were made chiefly of a light colored cement with dark 
heavy cross-beams that stood out with imposing yet interest- 
ing singularity to the unaccustomed eye and tho the village 
was but small, these antique dwellings were situated so close 
to each other that it seemed to me their occupants might 
easily shake hands across the narrow aisles between them. The 
only public highway that marked Hebenshausen was a single 
street running thru the center of it, too long to make any other 
necessary in so small a place, too narrow to permit any orna- 
mental shade trees, front lawns, or flower gardens, and so 
well-kept as to shame some of our largest cities. The only 
public buildings that could be detected anywhere were the 
church, the school and a little Jewish temple; and these seemed 
even stranger and more interesting than the private houses. 
The whole scene told the story of a hard-working, well-organ- 
ized but (to us, at least) poor community. 

145 



I passed on to the top of the hill where I had been directed 
to look for the graves of several of my ancestors of whom I 
had heard so much and seen nothing; and as, with some diffi- 
culty I opened the half unhinged gate, I could not help thinking, 
"Oh, dreary desolations; thy name is Country Graveyard!" 
It was evident by the straight, unbroken rows in which the 
graves were arranged that some attempt at order had been 
made by those in charge of the place. But certainly the 
attempt had been lost in utter failure, for the grass in the 
paths, and alas, on some of the graves also, was so long that I 
concluded (and without mistake as I found out later) that it was 
intended to be allowed to grow until it was ready to make into 
hay. Flowers there were but few on the graves and these were 
in many cases almost choked by weeds, and the humble slabs 
of marble and granite were in many cases half hidden by grass 
and weeds, or upon closer examination, almost disfigured by 
"uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture." Yet the thing that 
impressed me most, I discovered when, upon some search, I 
picked out my grandmother's grave according to the direc- 
tions I had received, but found out only after a long time 
that my grandfather was at an entirely different end of the 
cemetery. Then I saw that it was seldom two people of the 
same family were buried side by side, and that only the very 
richest families had lots of their own. This was for the same 
reason of course, as the closely-built houses; in a country so 
thickly populated as Germany, every square foot of earth is 
of value, too great to be within the reach of the common classes 
of people. There were, however, many large, beautiful trees 
scattered at regular intervals thruout the entire place which 
detracted greatly from the general disorderliness, and in spite 
of the many drawbacks, a certain sense of sacred peace that 
can be felt only among the graves of the dead, prevailed over 
all, and emphasized this holy Sabbath morning, by the sweetly- 
solemn pealing of the distant church bell. 

146 



From any point of this high hill could be seen and 
studied the surrounding country, strictly agricultural. 
It seemed to me that the whole neighborhood, with the 
exception of about a dozen villages, which could be 
seen from any one place, was one vast, well-kept garden, 
under such perfect cultivation were the fields, the 
meadows and the hillsides; and then, as my thots re- 
turned again to the little village I had just left, I could 
understand, what it was that made it and its inhabitants 
what they were. Surely land so perfectly kept must re- 
quire an undue amount of cultivation; and altho I knew 
that during the last ten years many machines had been 
imported from America for that purpose, there must 
still be a large amount of hard labor done, and that for 
low wages; otherwise how could those who owned the 
land be expected to pay such heavy taxes! The ma- 
jority of people, then, were employed by perhaps half a 
dozen land owners, a good deal as our Southern planters 
employ large numbers of men; and it was hard work 
and small pay that kept them from advancing socially as 
well as intellectually. 

But the church bell was chiming out its second 
call and I decided to answer its summons. Once back 
in the village I soon found my way to the gray stone 
church. How different it was from any I had ever seen 
and yet, as it was a church, how strangely like all other 
churches in the universe! In my own country I had 
never seen a place of worship actually covered with 
moss and crumbling with age. Yet this was certainly 
the case here; and still a certain air of substantialness 
marked it also, that, alas many of our much newer build- 
ings lack. I entered with my cousin who just came up 
at that time, and to my great surprise she led me to a 
private pew rented by her folks. She closed the door 

• 147 



behind her and we found ourselves sole occupants of a 
space large enough for quite a good-sized family. From 
it we could see unseen and hear unheard all that was 
going on in the little congregation. The church was 
as small as has been said, and in general it was furnished 
much like those of its size and character in our own 
country, but when the services were begun I forgot the 
country I was in, forgot the strange people there with 
me, forgot even that for the first time in my life I 
occupied a pew almost alone, while others were almost 
crowded for any kind of a seat, forgot all except that I 
was in church and His presence, and it was this that made 
this church so like all others even tho it was do different. 

XI-8-'06. 



148 



A WOMAN'S DRESS 

Yes, superficial tho it may seem at first thought, every 
woman must give a certain amount of her time to her external 
appearance as well as to her innermost being. It has been 
said, "It is every woman's right to look as beautiful as possible." 
It should have been said, "It is every woman's duty to look 
at least as neat as possible and to have her dress as far as is 
within her power harmonize with her surroundings and con- 
ditions." Let us then, for a moment, try to think of the 
subject of dress under the following headings — simplicity, 
ecomony, individuality, harmony and beauty. 

Simplicity! Is there a more beautiful, a more forceful word 
in the English language that could and ought to characterize 
a true woman's dress? No, because under it comes that other 
equally beautiful, equally forceful, equally necessary word — 
Modesty. 

The simple woman is the modest woman, the true woman, 
the woman that is sought after. She will not make herself a 
walking fashion-plate! She will not try to draw forth the envy of 
her neighbors and the attention of all with whom she comes 
in contact! She will not make her husband scornfully ask him- 
self the question: 

"What is a butterfly? At best, 
He's but a caterpillar dressed. 
The gaudy fop's picture just!" 

No, her ideals will be higher, nobler. She will wear becom- 
ing colors and materials and have them tastefully and suitably 
made even tho this involve the severest plainness. She will 

149 



make it her motto not to attract unneccessary attention. She 
will "never make her dress her rival." 

Economy! There are women in whose narrow minds their 
own appearance has such a prominent place that they will 
actually let their little boys go to school bare-footed and in 
overalls in order that they may have a new hat and suit (and 
sometimes several) for every season of the year and then 
they'll complain if they can't get a pair of gloves and a veil to 
match each new hat and suit. Now, while these things are 
unquestionably right for those who can easily afford them, 
they are unquestionably wrong, sinful, selfish, narrow for a 
woman in moderate circumstances who cannot have them 
without robbing somebody else of the bare necessities, to 
say nothing of the moderate comforts of life. A woman in 
her home looks just as attractive (and often more so) in a 
plain, substantial, well and neatly made, gingham dress, the 
material of which cost only a dollar, as she does in an expen- 
sive, woolen skirt and some fancy, half faded, cast-off waist — 
probably ladkihg the buttons. A woman on the street always 
receives just as much admiration in a plain walking skirt 
with a suitable waist and jacket to match as she would in an 
unnecessarily expensive and "fussy" tailor-made suit. It is 
surprising how much the tactful woman can save in her cloth- 
ing by making them herself, changing and making over old 
garments, using substantial rather than "stylish' materials 
and supplying taste for superfluous trimmings. All she thus 
wisely and nobly saves is her's and her family's and besides win- 
ning the respect of her husband and her neighbors. She can in 
this way often hide to the inquisitive outside world the somewhat 
embarrassing circumstances under which she labors. 

Individuality! What woman does not wish to be, or at 
least ought not to wish to be, herself, and stand for herself 
always? To fully carry this out she must not allow others 

150 



to do her entire thinking in the matter of her dress any 
more than in the matter of bringing up her children. 
She must know what is the most becoming way of mak- 
ing her new dress regardless of the newest fashion plate. 
"Fashion is a barricade behind which people hide 
nothingness." Surely no woman of true and proper 
independence and worth could ever want to be dictated 
to by the entire world! She will know what is best for 
every occasion for her especial use. She will know 
"dress is not a mere covering, but a symbol," the 
symbol of the woman who wears it. 

Harmony! Here seems to lie the secret of the 
whole, for any dress, however attractive in itself, soon 
loses its every charm if it is not suited to the wearer and 
the occasion. How painful would be the grandest ball 
dress at a funeral and how irreverant at church! How 
out of place any of us would feel in the most tasteful 
tailormade suit, if by some mistake we were to wear it 
to some formal dinner or reception! Not only must 
the gown be suited to the occasion but to the wearer as 
well. Suppose fashion does call for plaid or box plaints! 
That is no sign that every fleshy woman must wear these 
things. Suppose red is the leading color of the season! 
That is not a hint to every ''warm-complected" or every 
dignified, quiet woman to get a bright red suit. No, 
let this color remain for the gay, active people with fair, 
light complexions and let others wear whatever is best 
for them. 'Suitable wearing apparel is beautiful wear- 
ing apparel." 

And this brings us up to our last heading, — beauty. 
It seems safe to say that this simply summarizes all 
that has been said before, for if all these other things 
are carried out he will soon find that even in this manner 
of dress it is best to say 

151 



'Straight is in the line of duty, 
Curved is the line of beauty. 
Follow the first and you will see, 
The second ever following thee." 







AN AUTUMN LANDSCAPE 

As I sit and gaze from my window over the broad 
valley of the Father of Waters upon the ever changing, 
ever gorgeous autumn landscape, my heart warms and 
thrills with love and pride of the North Star State. 
Before me lies the little garden of the months just past. 
It has yielded its best for one season and now enjoys its 
well-earned repose for the next. The corn-fields, still 
unharvested, wave and rustle beyond it as the gentle 
breezes, passing thru, whisper tales of peace and 
plenty. Next is the bright underbrush of scarlet sumac 
and dark brown oaks that as yet are only bushes and are 
scattered here and there on the softest, richest, deepest 
green that Nature ever painted. Slowly, to a pictur- 
esque height rises this emerald carpet, bearing on its 
shadow-checkered bosom majestic oaks and graceful elms 
and scarlet maples until all rise to meet, or seem to meet, 
the azure depths of the peaceful heavens beyond. Thus 
from the beautiful scene I see a gleam of the light that 
is to come — a touch of the Master Artist. 

X-10-'08. 

152 



AN UNUSUAL SUNSET 

It had been one of those long, long rainy days that 
come to us sometimes in the midst of our beautiful spring 
seasons. The heavy rain clouds had hung so thick and 
low for hours that even the piercing sun could not pene- 
trate them and darkness seemed to be settling over the 
landscape before evening had fully come. But sudden- 
ly, just before the sun had run its full day's course, 
there was a rift in the dark clouds and the clear, soft, 
azure of the sky, stole calmly thru the heavy curtain and 
the "day-star" broke forth once more as tho he were 
embracing a last opportunity. Every blade of grass 
on the tender green hillside before me and every leaflet 
on the great, green trees that adorned it, still wore a 
bright jewel from the late rain and together they 
formed a sparkling sea, all bathed in the magic power 
of light. But clearest and brightest and fairest of 
all, just at the top of the hill, stood one bright, sparkling, 
trembling poplar tree, the sun's full, last rays upon it, 
every leaf aquiver, every quiver a diamond. Whether 
it was the tender young green of the soft, bright sheen of 
the poplar leaves, or whether it was the trembling, 
clinging rain-drops or the contrast and relief after the 
heavy shower, or whether it was the sun's bright glow 
over all, or the golden rim of the dark clouds that en- 
circled the tender blue, or whether it was the force of all 
these put together that made this scene such a strikingly 
beautiful one, I have never been quit able to say; but 
surely such a strange tho such a brief splendor I have 
never seen before or since. 



153 



ONLY AN ELM TREE 

This elm stands alone in its stately pride a graceful 
product of Nature's genius. To one side of it the coun- 
try road climbs slowly up to a gentle knoll, while to the 
other, it winds gracefully from out of the thick shadows 
of a deep, neighboring forest. Just cross the dusty 
road, where the trembling, shifting shadows of the tree 
are ever at play with the grass and pebbles, a green, 
wooded pasture rises with rapid strides to an overlooking 
hill. Opposite to this a great field of tall grain emerges 
suddenly from out the surrounding woodland, so that, 
from wherever it is approached, this gigantic country 
elm comes upon the traveler suddenly, fully, and as a 
complete surprise. Th/Ls probably accounts for its 
universal favor. 

As we come from the woods we suddenly stop short. 
What a beautiful tree that is ! How unusually large and 
graceful it appears from the distance. Surely only an 
elm could assume such size and form in central Minne- 
sota. We draw nearer. Yes, it is an elm; its gigantic 
outlines and stately bearing prove that; besides, its every 
branch has that graceful arch, that playful droop, and 
that majestic sway that is suggestive, tho not symbolic, 
of dreamful ease. 

We are under the tree now, resting in its grateful 
shade and gazing up into it. What a sturdy trunk it 
has and how nobly it supports its deep, dark cloud! 
Myriads of laughing leaves are softly "clapping their 
hands" at thot of furnishing shelter to a band of tired 
travelers; and their rustle and the branches' gentle sway 
is lulling a nest of young robins to sleep. Farther 
out, almost at the extreme tip of a huge branch, an 

154 



oriole's nest is suspended under the warm, quiet wings of the 
mother bird; while far away in the forest we hear the mate's 
enchanting notes. 

"He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, 
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best"? 

Up, up, up we gaze, beyond the branches that reach the 
arch, through a small gap in the thick foliage, to the drowsy 
blue of the June sky and the downy white clouds that sail 
across it. And now we feel a vague harmony between Nature's 
highest station and the majestic shelterer under which we 
have taken refuge. Softer and more meaningly blows the 
breeze, and lo! listen! the leaves are speaking: 

"Ye wonder, gentle dreamers, why only a tree can be so 
stately and self -poised; while poor humanity struggles so vain- 
ly for these virtures. But we are the children of One who 
never hurries, or frets, or worries what the morrow will bring 
forth; One who minds not winter's snows or summer's heat, 
nor withers in the times of drouth; One who TAKES time to be- 
come that for which God intended him." 



& 



155 



DESCRIPTIVE SENTENCES 

1. A Child's Prayer. 

As I think of that gentle child now, I see her again as 
she lay there, with her earnest little face against the 
white pillow, the gray eyes closed softly, the rosy lips 
moving quietly and two white hands clasped reverently 
upon the cover. 

2. Human Homes (?) 

In those wretched riverside hovels, low and damp 
and sunless and dirty, human souls are struggling toward 
eternity. 

3. A Jarring Sound. 

A sharp, shrill whistle from an on-rushing locomo- 
tive, jars the solitary silence. 

4. Evening. 

Night hovered o'er the arching trees and all the 
world was wrapped in stillness and in stars. 

5. When Nature Speaks. 

The shining clouds parted against the heights of the 
azure arch; from out their golden edges a mellow moon 
paled earthward; myriads of speaking stars all sent their 
glowing radiance toward her; earth seemed to fade from 
my benumbed senses; I thot I saw the face of my Creator, 
calm, pure, pitying, looking down upon His erring child. 

6. The Foundry. 

Unstable as a human heart, the flames of a distant 
foundry leap and die. 



156 



7. A River. 

Turbulent and unceasing as a deathless soul, the 
river flows on thru the ages. 

8. A Passion. 

Love, in her, was like fragrance in a flower, never 
dying until death. 

9. A Professor. 

In his noble soul there lurks not a mean or selfish 
thot, and in his large, warm heart there is room and 
shelter for us all. 

10. Dawn. 

A gush of warbling voices, a flood of rosy splendor, 
a thrill of life and beauty called forth my sleeping soul. 



157 



TRYING TO SLEEP 

Drip-drop-drip-drop-drop! Drip, drip, drip, drip-drop 
drop-d-r-o-p-! Thus the long night began. The room wag 
dark and I, trying to go to sleep, had not noticed that a 
steady communication had taken place between the roof 
of the house and that of the bay-window just outside, toy 
means of heavy drops of released snow. Now the cease- 
less repetition of the dull sounds seemed to me like a 
dreary, irritating monotony to which I must firmly close 
my ears if I wished to accomplish anything the next day. 

Drip-drop-drip-drop-drop! Drip, drip, drip, drip-drop- 
d-r-o-p! "Isn't it ever going to stop?" My sister, whom I 
had thot asleep, started up suddenly. Her sensitive ear 
and deep love of music evidently made her a deeper suf- 
ferer than I was. I laughed at the exclamation. I could 
not help it. It was so sudden and so decided. 

Drip-drop-drip-drop-drip-drop-drip-drop ! Drip-drip-drip 
drip-drop-d-r-o-p! The rain pattered on in what seemed to 
me to be regular, almost rythmical, tho irritaitingly monot- 
onous repetition. The night wore on. The dripping continued. 
We grew more impatient. But gradually the very monotony, 
which had so irritated us, wearied us. We knew that we could 
not stop it. We decided to endure it as best we could by firmly 
closing our ears against it. Gradually sleep came on. Perhaps 
the ceaseless repetition without made it all the deeper and 
more refreshing. We could not tell. We only knew that when 
we were next awakened by the same repeated sound it was a 
warm, wet, winter morning and all the earth seemed flooded 
with the collected drops that the night had sent forth. 



158 



THE HEART OF FRIENDSHIP 

Winifred never quite understood why her old passion 
should have returned to her, that quiet Sunday afternoon 
with such an overwhelming power and force. She had fought 
it long and bravely; she had not felt its worst pangs for weeks; 
she had deemed it almost conquered. And now it returned, 
on that peaceful autumn day, with a sudden tenacity that 
almost seemed to mock the still, calm beauty without. Per- 
haps she was homesick; perhaps she was only tired. She did 
not know. She only knew that again she was 

Longing, longing, longing, 

For the gentle caress of a hand; 
For the only human being 

That could always understand; 
For the sympathy without measure; 

For the candor, unmarred by blame; 
For the earnest advice of a loving heart 
That bled when hers was in pain. 
For some minutes she struggled with her first great love, 
troubled, perplexed, baffled. What did it mean, this ever- 
returning passion? She had thot that only great souls were 
capable of a really great love; and here she was, tormented 
day and night, waking and sleeping, by the wild, all-absorb- 
ing passion for a friend, a former teacher, who, because of her 
marriage, had been obliged to leave her dependent charge 
behind, in the large, unsympathizing school. 

Jonathan his David had, 

And Tennyson his Hallam; 



159 



Why should not truest womanhood 
Give her first love to woman? 

Winifred turned from her little window and walked 
hastily down the long hall of the dormitory to the room of 
her teacher in charge of her floor. 

"I want to go away this afternoon," she said compelling- 
ly as she turned to add her name to the long list of girls who 
had already asked for similar permission. 

Miss Chase looked at her in mute surprise. "Where is it 
that you want to go, my dear?" she inquired kindly. 

There was a wild, questioning stare in the girl's blue eyes 
as she mutely pointed at the last address on the list. Could 
no one guess her wild longing; no one sympathize; no one, no 
one understand without being told? With one sudden pas- 
sionate cry Winifred threw her arms about the astonished 
Miss Chase's neck and wept and trembled like a frightened 
child. It was some minutes before she had sufficiently regained 
her composure to return to her little room and there, in its 
waiting seclusion, to struggle for the mastery of her emotions. 

But her yearning to see her idol did not diminish with 
her slackening tears. With trembling fingers she attached 
her best collar to her waist and fastened her new belt in place. 
Then, with a sudden, dark realization, she threw them both 
aside again, murmuring as she did so, "It is useless, worse 
than useless. She won't be home on such a beautiful day as 
this. And if she is, her husband'll be there too, and intrusion 
in her company would be worse than not seeing her at all." 

For some minutes she paced her room madly. Then she 
snatched her hat and coat from her closet, armed herself with 
a volume of her favorite poems, and ran out into the autumn 
afternoon, far, far away, where only Nature could witness her 
distress. At length she sat down to rest against the trunk of 
a tree in a large neighboring apple orchard. She opened her 

160 



book, but only stared vacantly at its pages. At length 
the sound of nearing voices roused her. Again she 
started to her feet; again she walked madly on. Away, 
away, she knew not whither, she cared not; but only 
away from prying eyes and unsympathizing criticism! 
Along solitary country roads, thru dark underbrush, 
among falling autumn leaves she wandered, until at last 
complete exhaustion urged her to turn her feet in the 
direction of the dormitory once more. Tired, un- 
speakably tired as she was, rest seemed a boon at last 
and even sleep a welcome possibility. Throwing herself 
upon her little bed, this blessed relief soon came and 
sweet oblivion stole over her surging soul! 

How long she lay there thus she knew not. Sud- 
denly she was startled by the mention of her name, and 
that by a voice as sweet, and as melodious as only one 
could sound to her! She started; she sprang from her 
bed; she ran madly down the long hall! Yes, it had not 
been mistaken! In another minute she was clasped close 
in the caressing arms of her faithful friend. How she 
got there, or what she did, or why the object of her mad 
love had come just then she never knew, she never in- 
quired. 

''My child, my child, what has happened? What is 
the matter? Will you not let me see your face?" the 
gentle voice spoke soothingly. 

But the bowed head did not raise itself; the 
quivering form did not cease to tremble. 

"Perhaps she does not want you to see her face," 
Miss Chase ventured to say, as she watched the little 
scene with moist eyes. It was evident that she was 
thinking of the flood of tears of a few hours ago. Then 
slowly the glowing face bared itself, and the soul of the 
beaming girl sought that of her friend thru, large, tear- 
less, lovelit eyes. 

161 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

They tell me that I was born in the little Minnesota 
town of Young America, so long ago that it's no wonder 
that I don't remember anything about it; and since this 
last, at least, is really true, I suppose I'll have to believe 
them the rest. By "them" I mean my own father and 
mother, for mine is not at all a romantic existence, and 
I was brot up quite naturally in a perfectly ordinary 
home among perfectly ordinary surroundings and with 
about the ordinary number of brothers and sisters — 
two of each. They, my parents, tell me furthermore 
that before I was quite three years old, they saw fit to 
move to a distant part of our little county, and, for 
some reason or other — I can't recall why just now — I 
must have followed them for I've lived with them ever 
since. That must be how it happened that I first came 
to the beautiful little village of Carver, which I am 
still so proud to call my home, and where I am planning 
eagerly to spend my old age. 

Carver, as I have already indicated, is a quiet little 
village nest, tucked away along the winding banks of 
the cloudy Minnesota, with soft green hills spreading into 
hazy distances on either side, and wide, sunny meadows 
lying lazily between. Here, at the side of one of these 
hills, I got my first real peeps into the big, bright world 
about me, from out the little old-fashioned win- 
dows of the little old-fashioned house that stood 
comfortably midst the big rosebushes and ever- 
greens to the front of it, and the generous plum 
trees and berry bushes to the back. Here my childish 
fancy made its first acquaintance with the queer 
little old woman and her dear, imaginary daughter, who 
dwelt in the back of the shed or in the fartherest 

162 



recesses of the romantic old straw-stack at the end of the 
garden. Here I first heard my father read the little German 
stories to his anxious flock, from whom childish shouts and 
tears broke by rapid turns. Here it was that I first watched 
the big snow-flakes fall and the deep stars glow and the soft 
grass grow greener on the hillsides with a childish ecstacy 
and joy that, even then, was usually too deep for words. Here, 
too, my sister told me that there was a big wonderful God in 
heaven who could do anything He pleased and who had made 
everything in the wide world, even the little brown acorns 
and the big white fleecy clouds and the house in which we 
Uvea* and "mama and papa and us." 

When I was about five years old I was suddenly informed 
that to-morrow morning I would be going off to Kindergarten 
and I remember sitting back in my little chair and wondering 
what the new work would be like and thinking what a break it 
would make in my life. The next morning my father took 
my two younger brothers and myself to the little town hall 
where the teacher was awaiting us; and for the next few months 
life seemed indeed a wonderful thing to us all; for, besides 
all the other wonders of the Kindergarten, we, for the first 
time in our lives, heard and talked English. Just what we 
sometimes understood our little playmates to say and how 
we usually talked to them, I'm sure I'd be interested in know- 
ing now, but all I do know, is that we learned the new language 
and retained the old with as little effort as it now takes for 
us to write our own names; and, however some people may 
regard the question of American-born foreigners learning their 
mother's tongue first, I'm grateful that I've had the privilege 
of learning two languages thus readily. 

Thus the happy months slipped by and one fine, spring 
morning we all left the little, brown house behind us and 
moved into another and larger one, to the great regret of my 

163 



brothers and myself, for our new home had no plums or berries 
or straw-stacks. But gradually the big, brick house and the 
large comfortable shade trees and the high hill with its wide 
paths and inviting rustic seats won our complete respect and 
now there is no place on the face of the earth that is dearer to 
any of us than "Hilldale," our home. The things that stand 
out most clearly to me in the years between six and twelve 
or fourteen are the German stories that father read to us 
on winter evenings, the great festivities of Christmas and 
Easter and, of course, the long, long rambles into the woods 
and across the fields in summer time. I was a regular "Tom- 
boy" in those days. Nothing was too hard or too boyish for 
me to undertake. I ransacked the woods for nuts and berries, 
climbed trees, fished, and did everything else that kept me 
out-of-doors and away from the critical eyes of mother, who 
believed that girls must be domestic and never do anything 
that appealed especially to boys. Once I caught a huge dog- 
fish and was much disappointed to hear that such creatures 
were good for nothing in the wide world but to get into the 
way of better game. Once I nearly got lost in a tall grain field 
which towered unmercifully above my head, but it never fazed 
me in the least, except that I wanted to go berrying worse than 
ever the following day. At another time I convinced my 
brother that, since we had filled our baskets, it was perfectly 
proper for us to take off our stockings and put all the remain- 
ing plums we could find into them, as mother would probably 
wash the plums before using them, but I could never quite 
understand what became of them, as I saw nothing of the 
plum-butter. One time my two brothers and I even went so 
far as to come within one of drowning our younger sister — 
not that we actually planned to do so, but of course, fishing 
was so much more important than baby tending that it would 
have been quite proper for us to attend to the former matter 



164 



rather than the latter. Again, we allowed the poor child to 
get into a nest of wasps and were tickled not to get as badly 
stung as she did. We were a wild set — we three — and I was 
always a ring-leader, in all that was wildest, and yet, for all 
that, I think the deep wonder and grand beauty of our rustic 
surroundings made a firmer, deeper impression on me than all 
the girlish fun and all of the boyish pranks the great world 
had to offer. Yes, I think I can safely say that the things which 
impressed me most deeply in childhood, still have the deepest 
influence over me to this day — nature, poetry and religion. 

At school I usually showed the more quiet side of my 
nature — at least whenever I had a teacher for whom I had 
any respect. I loved my work and the school-room atmos- 
phere; I idealized my teachers very easily for I had an idea 
that they had somehow dropped from the sky, and when one 
of them once mentioned the fact that she had a younger sister 
at home I couldn't get over the idea for days. Why! did teach- 
ers have sisters? Who would have thot so? On the whole, 
my work was very easy for me tho I never belonged to the 
class who could get their lessons without application, and it 
was the latter that I really enjoyed, except in spelling, where 
it did absolutely no good. But I was a very sensitive child, 
so much so, that I imagined every time a teacher kept me after 
school to master some detestable spelling lesson, the whole 
community must know it and I was so ashamed of the dis- 
graceful fact that I would tear wildly thru all the back allies 
the town had, splash heedlessly thru the little brook at the 
back of the village where no one would be likely to see me, 
then race up the perpendicular hill that led to our home, and 
then thru some more allies and cattle yards, until, almost 
ready to drop with exhaustion, I would enter the kitchen about 
as soon as my brothers who had sauntered leisurely home along 
the ordinary paths. Very tense, indeed, were some of those 



165 



days and ajl on account of this useless sensitiveness which I'm 
afraid to say, I haven't quite mastered yet. But on the whole 
my school days were very pleasant ones to me, and I was never 
so unhappy as when I was obliged to miss a day or two. 

By the time I reached the seventh grade I had a teacher 
who was very fond of all good literature. He used to spend 
hours over a few lines of Snow Bound or Evangeline or 
The Chambered Nautilis, and never, until I reached the 
university was I quite so deeply inspired by the real worth of 
true literature as thru this simple man who knew almost noth- 
ing of English Literature himself and was therefore obliged 
to keep to the American. I, even now, feel deeply grateful 
to this man, who, I believe, awakened within me a bent of 
my nature that could not be awakened too early. At about 
this time, too, and partly thru this same man my religious 
nature was more fully awakened. Until now I had been filed 
earnestly with the belief my sister had so early implanted with- 
in me, that God had made everything and could do anything 
he pleased. Now the questions of dogma began to trouble 
me seriously and I spent many and many a night trying to 
read in the faces of the eternal stars the riddles of creation 
and salvation; and it is to the stars that I still love to go when 
confronted with questions of that sort. 

However, it was not until I had finally finished the grades 
that these deeper problems took vital hold of me and then they 
nearly upset me completely for a time. My mother felt that 
I ought to learn to sew, as I had always had a fondness for 
fine clothes and for needlework. Accordingly, at the age of 
sixteen, I was put into a dressmaker's shop where, as Eleanor 
would say, "I lost my health and became a socialist, neither 
of which I realized at the time." I stayed in this place for 
over a year with but very few vacations between. During that 
time I met people who, to my great surprise, actually seemed 



166 



to enjoy talking all day about their "fellers," and who, worse 
still, seemed to enjoy the company of these individuals at 
the most unheard of hours of the day and night. I do not 
• think that I condemned these people, even in my heart of 
hearts for that they were generous, industrious and well- 
meaning; I could see that on the very surface of things; but some- 
how, they were so different. The few books I did read did not in 
the least appeal to them; the poetry I memorized by the mile 
meant absolutely nothing to them; and the stars I almost 
worshipped, they scarcely saw. I could not understand them 
at all and, still less, I believe, they understood me. Yet, to 
some extent we learned to love each other and, as I look back 
now, I believe these simple girls did me a great deal of good, 
for they have given me a deeper understanding and a broader 
sympathy for people of their type than anyone or anything 
else could have done. 

Once I had left the sewing shop, the real struggle with lone- 
liness and inner conflict began, and gripped me as nothing had 
done before. Mother and father wanted me to stay at home 
while my older sister was out of town at high school. Being 
naturally of a reflecting type of mind, and having an inborn 
craving for an education, this somewhat monastic existence 
naturally did me a great deal of harm, especially as I saw no 
means of ever getting the education I longed for. However, 
after a time, my father saw how extremely unhappy I was and 
he insisted on my taking a trip to Germany with my mother, 
to compensate as much as possible for the High School train- 
ing I had lost. This trip, much as I opposed it at first, proved 
to be the turning point of my life, for when I returned the way 
was seen clear to send me to the agricultural school where I 
received my secondary training. 

Here the new life and new hope was almost too much for 
me at times and the physical self, which I had so impaired i n 

167 



the sewing shop and afterward, often threatened to forsake 
me entirely. However, the new friends which I soon found 
in the form of several of my teachers whom I idealized so 
madly, gradually helped me back to normal ways of thinking 
and acting; and by the time I left the school I was told that I 
was at least ten years younger than when I had first entered it. 
How true this may or may not have been others can, perhaps, 
judge more fairly than I, but I do know that the school whose 
work I never liked, from the point of view of subject-matter 
only. However, it did me an immense amount of good; tho 
I never considered it as anything but a means to an end, a 
pathway leading to an institution of higher and better 
opportunities. After I had finished its three-year course 
and the year of graduate work it takes to enter the 
University, I came, full of expectation and hope, to that 
institution and here I still am. What the ups and downs 
have been here I will leave to others to tell and to imagine. 

l-6,-'14. 



168 



WHAT IS LIFE IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY? 

What is life in the twentieth century? 
"Work and worry, work and worry, 
Everybody in a hurry." 

Often even before the gray dawn steals into our 
window we are ruthlessly startled by the sudden rattle 
of our neighbor's alarm. We groan to think that a new 
day has begun almost before we really felt that the last 
was completed. However, we make a new start with 
the vain hope of doing better today than yesterday. We 
gulp down a half-cooked breakfast, very often while we 
are putting the finishing touches to our toilet. We dash 
out into the new day, some of us to the work-shop, some 
to the factory, some to the office, some to the field, and 
others to the class-room, most of us leaving the entire 
care of the innumerable household duties to one pair of 
tired hands. Some of us rush back at noon with the 
expectation of finding everything ready, in order that 
we may eat a hurried dinner and start off again; most of 
us have "no time" for this, so we take our lunches at 
some poor restaurant or eat the cold ones we threw 
together in the morning. Then the rush of the after- 
noon begins. It is much the same as it was in the 
morning, only we are more tired now and we are labor- 
ing under a greater strain. Evening comes and then 
night, but we can not think of rest yet. By the bright 
glare of the gas lamp we go to our books or evening 
papers, or, perhaps, we are allowewd the privilege of a 
lecture, or the theater, or a party, or just a visit to some 
friend. Whatever it is, we must not let it take too long, 

169 



or talk about it too much, or reflect on it too long, for 
tomorrow is another day of work and we dare not waste 
the brief hours of the night for the things which the 
day has forbidden us to indulge in. We must go to 
sleep and "sleep fast" so tomorrow's work will not be 
interferred with. 

The world rushes on. Sunday comes. We long for 
rest; we need it so. But the sound of the church bell or 
the ever-moving hands of the clock tell us of new duties 
as well as new privileges. We enjoy church in the 
morning and we might remember some of the sermons, 
if it were not immediately followed by Sunday school 
and then, with a few hours' intermission, by Vesper Ser- 
vice, Christian Endeavor, and evening services. Of 
course, we need not, and seldom do, attend all of these 
things, but when we do not, we always feel as tho we 
were missing something that is rightly ours. 

Where do we get time to reflect on the real, the vital 
issues of life? When can we write to our dearest 
friends? How are we going to find time to visit the sick 
and the dependent? Days become weeks and weeks 
months ; and still we neglect the little things that we 
really want to do more than anything else. Is is a won- 
der that we find 

"All the old-time love forgotten 
In the price of corn and cotton?" 

What will it lead to? This generation is weak and 
nervous enough. What will the next be? I dare not 
take time to think for the hour is up and I must hurry 
on into the next thing. 



170 



WHEN NATURE SPEAKS 

Hush! Hark! Come, step softly to the window and 
look and listen and inhale! For the rain has ceased to 
fall; the clouds have sped from the heavens; the young 
summer is at her purest and her best. Do you see that 
rich dark hill where the robins are searching for worms? 
Do you note those tall trees and tiny flowers all laughing 
with new life and new joy? Does your heart throb and 
thrill with that trembling, jewel-bathed poplar, just at 
the top of the hill? Do you not wonder how those 
sinking sunbeams can caress so tenderly those shining, 
quivering leaves and how that dying "day star" can shed 
such a halo over this dusky earth? 

Ah! but hush, listen I say! Do you not hear? A 
few heavy raindrops are still dripping from the laden 
leaves and tiny leaflets. In a far-off meadow frogs pipe 
and crickets chirp cheerily. And then, there is that 
poor, homely little sparrow. Even he peeps contentedly 
today! But hush! Still! Listen again! High, high 
up in those airy, leafy treetops a whole score of happy 
songsters have joined in one glad, exultant chorus. 
There is a twittering and a thrilling; there is a wild, 
maddening harmony; there is music, heaven-born music, 
such as only Nature can yield! Be still, my heart, 
and listen and let thy joy be as pure as this! 

Again pause, O poor, house-bound human prisoner! 
Open up thy breast! Open wide thy tired breast! In- 
hale the great gift of Nature, the calm, sweet, life-giving 

171 



atmosphere. For the earth hath been purified now, 
hath been purged of all its dust and its dirt and its 
danger; and nothing is borne on that still west breeze, 
but the faint scent of the first wild rose and the linger- 
ing fragrance of the orchard blossoms! 

Only a rich, green hill, with a few rain-laden trees 
on its bosom! Only a tremendous poplar and the sink- 
ing sunlight behind it! Only a chorus of joy, with the 
fragrance of flowers to enhance it, and yet, dost thou 
quiver so, feeble human breast! Be still, O my heart! 
Be still, O my soul! Knowest thou not that even while 
thou seeest, even while thou hearest, thou art praying, 
art softly whispering into the listening ear of the tender 
Father. 



J$ 



172 



CULTURE AND EDUCATION 

Education is the development of all the faculties of 
man to their highest degree of efficiency. Culture is 
the discipline of all the powers of man to their highest 
degree of refinement. Education aims to make men 
useful; culture aims to make them useful and refined. 
Education, broadens; culture broadens and sweetens. 
Education strengthens; culture strengthens and beau- 
tifies. 

All who are truly cultured are educated; but not 
all who are educated can be said to be truly cultured. 
There are people who seem to know everything there is 
to know. Whether you ask them to recite a poem, or 
give a date in history, or demonstrate a theorem in 
mathematics, or explain a law in science, they always 
respond with perfect self-confidence. They know, and 
they ''know that they know." They are educated. 
There are others who go about their daily tasks modestly 
and quietly; who never laugh too loudly or eat too rapidly; 
who have their speech and their manner in perfect con- 
trol. When you ask them a question they answer with 
just as much accuracy, but with less display of self- 
confidence than these so-called "educated" people. Yet 
certanly they are educated too; but they are not merely 
educated. They are cultured. Usually we admire the 
first class for their accomplishments; very often, when 
they are too self-confident, we almost despise them. As 
for the second class, we always admire them for what 
they know; but usually we do more, we love them for 
the way in which they make use of their knowledge. 

Education, then, is a stepping-stone toward culture; 
culture embraces education. Education works hard and 
often laboriously in order to obtain her end; culture 

173 



works diligently and quietly, but she "gets there" just 
the same. Education strives to make men and women; 
culture is not satisfied until she has made gentlemen and 
ladies. 

UNITY OF SOUL 

I found a soul the other night, 
A soul so wondrous fair; 
I trembled when to my dull eyes 
She laid her jewels bare. 

So poor and meagre had she seemed 
In her cold cloak of clay, 
That almost I had passed her by 
Upon my hurried way. 

She lifted timidly and slow 
The cloak's dull curtain fold, 
And lo, beneath that mortal husk 
Lay pure immortal gold. 

And warm and radiant was the light 
That gleamed forth from her eyes, 
Each thot she uttered was to me 
A beautiful surprise. 

And one by one as stars come out 
I watched those thots unfold, 
And slowly gave my inmost self, 
I could no more withhold. 

And now that soul is knit with mine, 
We twain to one have grown; 
I tremble I so nearly lost 
What is so all mine own. 

174 



THE SABBATH 

"The Sabbath is a golden clasp which binds together the 
volume of the week," so at least the poet Longfellow defined 
it. And was he not right in so doing? When Saturday night 
finally comes, with its delightful feeling of relaxation, do we 
not truly feel that another "volume" lies behind us? — a volume 
of work and hurry and disappointment, of pleasure and happi- 
ness and gratitude. Indeed, sometimes, in our busy college lives 
we are dashed thru so much in a single week that, when its 
end finally comes, it seems almost a month ago since we were 
last at church, so vague has become the impressive sermon of 
six short days ago. There are our inevitable daily classes, 
there are new faces and names to keep in mind, there are the 
many little home duties from which we would not escape if 
we could, there are the college associations that want atten- 
tion, there are the letters to write, endless letters, there are 
lessons, lessons, lessons. 

Then thru the strife and hurry and turmoil of it all, comes 
the Sabbath, quietly, gently, smilingly, like a great releaser 
of some heavy pressure, like the soothing touch of a gentle 
comforter, like a sweet messenger of peace from another land. 
There is no hurry in her footsteps, there is no restlessness in 
her manner, there is no discord in her voice of praise, for she 
is the "sabbath of the Lord, our God." At her gentle approach 
the whole earth stops short to "come apart and rest awhile." 
The busy wheels of labor stop the restless hum, the plowshare 
remains in its furrow, the sound of the school bell is not heard. 
Everywhere people are gathering together in little groups to 
praise and worship God for their safe guidance for another 

175 



week. For no matter what has taken place thruout that week, 
it is gone, never to return; it is another volume laid away on 
the dusty shelves of the past, and the quiet Sabbath has come 
to "bind" it firmly together with its beautiful "golden clasp," 
the clasp of peace. 



176 



THE TEMPTATIONS 

"In those days came John the Baptist preaching in 
the Wilderness of Judea, saying: 'Repent ye, for the 
Kingdom of Heaven is at hand'." Matt. 3: 1-2. 

What .a dramatic picture and how simply and boldly 
it is painted against the heavy background of Jewish 
prophecy and the gradual awakening of national con- 
sciousness to a kingdom "not of this world." Unflinch- 
ingly, unsparingly the simple orator hurls his most with- 
ering denunciations at a ''generation of vipers," warned 
even against its own wish of an inevitable "wrath to 
come." 

Spurred by a fear as yet undefined; beckoned by a 
hope still standing afar off; the crowd, almost uncon- 
scious of itself, gathers with amazing rapidity and the 
obscure prophet leaps with one bound into the forefront 
of national activity. 

The publican, his pockets bulging with unjust gains; 
the soldier, the exponent of mere material force ; the 
Pharisee and Sadducee, but yesterday so self-satisfied and 
self -secure; all are there with the same helpless question: 
"What must I do to be saved?" Yes, and there too, is the 
traitor, coming in avowed meekness to be baptised, and 
sneaking out in unexpressed hatred to inform Herod of 
the plain spoken justice which spared not even the king. 
Countless peasants, too, must have been there, and a few 
of the true and trusting ones from all classes, who, in 
their simple faith and keen spiritual insight, represented 
the backbone of all Israel; Yes, and many, many women 
and countless faithfilled children doubtless swelled the 
throng at every hour. A strange crowd they must have 
been indeed, a crowd which, but for the holy purpose 

177 



which had been strong enough to call them all forth, 
might easiy have become a mob. 

The stern work of the prophet grew sterner, the 
stinging rebukes more stinging and still the fearless 
accused remain unacused. Fascinated by they knew not 
what, the vast throng takes its keen denunciation — wait- 
ing, deliberating, questioning, unconsciously welded by 
this simple seer into something of a national unit; yet so 
steeped in doubt, in doctrine, in dogma; so completely "in 
the wilderness" of moral thot that not even the great 
preacher himself sees, immediately, the great truth he is 
proclaiming, now concretely brot before him, in the 
Christ of Godly conception, made comprehensible to 
human thot in human form thru the man Jesus. 

And he, the obscure son of the Galilean carpenter, 
how long had he stood there unknown and unnoticed? 
What indomitable force was it that lured him out of his 
secure obscurity into the hazardous publicity of the long 
expected King of kings? What was it he saw in that 
strange, yielding, yet unyielding mass so anxious and 
earnest, so material and yet so spiritual? Records fail 
us at this point. All we know is that something in that 
impressive hour made him feel that he, too, needs must 
yield to the "Baptism of Repentance"" which in that 
hour was virtually a 'confession of sins." And as the 
simple ceremony impressed itself upon him in all its rich 
symbolism, the great gates of eternal harmony, of man's 
unbroken, unblotted oneness with his Maker were sud- 
denly swung wide open, he glimpsed in one brief moment, 
not only His own true selfhood — HIS CHRISTHOOD, 
but the true, unchanged and unchanging manhood 
of all that vast multitude, and many unseen, vaster 
multitudes that encircled the whole globe ; yea, that 
stretched backward into the very dawn of mortal his- 
tory and forward into the farthest limits of time. 

178 



And as that keen, pure, spiritual understanding suddenly 
so clearly revealed itself to Him, thot speedily resolved itself 
into a dove-like bodily form and thus descended upon Him 
as the symbol of peace and purity, the Holy Ghost. 

* But much as he loved the multitude, he must not tarry 
there now. Indeed, His newborn insight into the great work 
before Him was too keen for him not to see that he must 
have some time in whiqh to reflect, to commune alone with 
the ever-present Father, about whose "business" he so soon 
must be. It was the very clearness of his perception, this 
"Spirit" (of understanding), that led him into the tangled 
"wilderness" of mortal thot. For, had he not heard clearly 
the voice of his Father, the Divine Principle of all Being, say- 
ing: "This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased?" 
He, the plain carpenter's son from the little village of 
Nazareth, the very Son of God Himself! "How could these 
things be!" That they were he knew, for he had seen and 
heard with the undeniable clearness of pure, spiritual percep- 
tion. But how could they be, and what did it all mean? He 
must withdraw for a time from the multitude he loved, shut 
out so far as possible every hampering suggestion, and, in 
the quiet of his own thot, seek to commune with the omnipo- 
tent God for whom his countrymen had sought since the 
very birth of time, sought, indeed, so diligently that, even now, 
their own search was bringing them face to face with the Su- 
preme Object of their long seeking. And his own thot, just 
what must it have been at this time? On the one hand was 
the clear spiritual vision that, because of its very clearness, 
bore the stamp of conviction, of understanding; on the other 
were thirty years of mortal thot, mortal associations, mortal 
suggestions; and, tho perhaps the strongest force of his life so 
far had been the holy influence of a pure-minded, spiritually- 
blessed mother and a quiet, unworldly Hebrew home very 

179 



largely molded by that mother, yet there were none the less — 
thirty years of thinking in terms of a physical body, of houses 
and lands, of food and clothing; in short, of matarial as well as 
spiritual needs. Indeed, it was the "Holy Ghost," the complete 
understanding of the simple facts of Imnortal Being so re- 
cently and so fully glimpsed, that confronted now the mortal 
thot and habit that had, all these years, seemed so obvious 
and so essential and produced now the inevitable confusion, 
always produced when mortal and spiritual testimony clamor 
for a hearing at the same time. 

For forty days, we are told, he was "tempted" thus in 
the "wilderness," the confusion of his own troubled consciousness; 
"tempted by the devil," the mortal thot not yet overcome and 
eliminated. But "God is not tempted with evil, neither tempt- 
eth He any man." No it was not the Christ, the Spirit of 
Truth, that was tempted, "neither indeed could be," but 
it was the Christ that "led" the human Jesus into this 
confusion of thot by showing to him a higher, better thot and 
He would continue to lead him until He led him safely out. 

How severe the struggle was; how fiercely mortal mind 
sought to re-establish itself; how tenatiously mortal impres- 
sions must have clung we cannot know, we can only estimate 
by our own lesser struggles and by the knowledge that for 
forty long days even the thot of food was forgotten, and surely 
there could have been no rest under such circumstances. 

There, on the one hand, was the great throbbing mass, 
eager, anxious, expectant — rising ever before his mortal 
vision, with all its mortal needs and mortal aspirations; on 
the other hand, the pure, calm, perfect manhood that "maketh 
no haste." On the one hand, sick, sinful, suffering humanity; 
on the other, sinless, calm and harmonious bliss. On the one 
hand, an anxious mortality waiting to establish an earthly 
kingdom and earthly splendor, and yet with divine omnipo- 

180 



tence at its command; on the other, a divine revelation, the 
eternal Christhood self-recognizad, the long-looked-for ful- 
fillment of a prophecy as ancient as Hebrew history. In a 
word, the long expected coming in a totally unexp acted way. 

How was he to make it all clear to them; he, the simple, 
obscure carpenter's son? How indeed, would they take it if 
he could succeed in making them undarstand? The question 
was beset by fears. But it was the Spirit that had led him 
thither, and still the Spirit continued to lead him. Gradually 
his thots became clearer, calmer. Gradually he realized with 
ever growing clearness that the "Father" whose "Son" He was, 
was not the great super-man devised by Jewish theology 
and springing from the ever growing spiritual hunger of human- 
ity ;but the living, loving, governing power of the universe; 
a universe planned and orderly. But plan and order express 
intelligence; and intelligence is wholly of Mind; and the Mind 
which directs and governs the whole universe must be omnipo- 
tent as well as omniscient. But since there can be but one 
Omnipotence and that is mental, all true power must be mental; 
and if He, the Christ, was the son of that mentality, the idea 
of that one omnipotent Mind, surely He, too, must have the 
power of accomplishing all things mentally. He had but 
to speak the word and the deed would be accomplished. Since 
all was mental there could be no limit to anything, as Infinite 
Mind could know no limitation and would resolve thot into 
things just as quickly as suqh things were needful. Yes, He 
whom God Himself had declared His Son, He could surely go 
forth to conquer and not be conquered. Surely He had noth- 
ing to fear! 

Was the great struggle ended? Was the great problem 
solved? For forty days He had lived sufficiently above mortal 
sense not to require material food. Surely He was ready for 



181 



the great work he had demonstrated to Himself that the voice 
He had heafrd was the voice of Truth. 

But what was the first thing he encountered at the end 
of those forty memorable days? Physical hunger. He, the Son 
of God, Spirit, longed for material food! "Strange," he doubt- 
less must have thot. But then, what difference did it make? 
Supposing there were no food at hand, had he not just learned 
that thot's are things? Here was his opportunity. He would 
simply take one of the stones that lay beside him and, with 
the omnipotence surely granted the Son of God, command 
that it be made into bread. The process would be simple and 
an obvious one, and at the same time he would thus concretely 
prove to himself that the knowledge so recently gained was 
indeed of Truth. Surely there could be no harm in that, es- 
pecially when the need was such an obvious one? 

Clearly, distinctly came the voice of Truth, and the min- 
istering Angel that whispered to him supplied the nobler thot 
which indeed was life-sustaining. "If you are truly the Son of 
God, Spirit, what need have you of material food. Cannot 
Spirit sustain you? Will not the Word of God be to you the 
the bread of life, the life you have proved to be mental, not 
physical? 'Man must not live by bread alone, but by every 
word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.' 

No, he would not stoop to supply his own physical need, 
even tho he felt he could. He would be at once "about his 
Father's business." He would gather under the protecting 
wings of Spirit the great anxious throngs waiting for such 
deliverance. But, the way in which he would do it — it was 
not quite clear to him yet. He wanted to do it as the Father 
would wish it done, but surely he would have to appeal to 
humanity on a human basis? Given all power of God Himself, 
he must use it wisely. He could not meet their mortality, 
their utter materiality, spiritually; that would not be common 

182 



sense. He must make known to them his spiritual mission 
in a way comprehendable to them, and what could they grasp 
more quickly, more completely than a sudden triumphal march 
into the great "kingdoms of this world." God would furnish 
him his hosts and he would lead a truly royal procession to 
take complete kingly possession of all that was truly worth 
while and annihilate at one stroke all the hosts of darkness. 
All was doubtless his. It remained but for him to take it in 
a sensible, logical manner that would be at once complete 
and convincing. How simple it all was! Why had he not 
seen it before? 

But this time the angel that came spoke more sternly. "Is 
that God's way of doing things?" "Is that a spiritual victory 
you are trying to win, or is it mere personal glory you seek? 
"Get thee behind me, mortal thot and mortal counsel, for 
the Book of Life" says 'Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, 
and Him only shalt thou serve." 

Was he quenched, the evil councilor? Was he abashed, 
the subtle deceiver? Ah, no, there remained yet the keenest, 
the subtlest temptation of all. "Surely" whispered mortal 
mind "you must see that if you intend to show your divine 
mission in the world, the best and only sensible place to in- 
troduce yourself is in the temple where God has ever shown 
Himself to His very elect. There among the priests and rabbi 
you will surely gain quickest and surest recognition. Show 
yourself to them in some new and wholly different way than 
any they had ever seen and they will proclaim you at once 
"King of kings" and "Lord of Lords." You as God's Son 
are wholly spiritual and can come and go wholly as you please. 
Go to the extreme pinnacle of the temple and cast yourself 
down. Youknow you have been promised safe delivery, for 
"He will give his angels charge over thee, lest at any time 
thou dash thy foot against a stone." Again the material in 

183 



place of the spiritual, the spectacular in place of the unob- 
trusive. But it was the last assault that day. Clearly the 
angel whispered "That is not God's way; that could never 
usher in a spiritual kingdom" and the Biblical reply is "Thou 
shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.' ' 

It was no use. Mortal arguments could not prevail in a 
mentality so largely governed by spiritual understanding. 
Truth once clearly apprehended, was stronger than any and 
all error. The struggle had been a severe one, but now "when 
the devil had ended all the temptations, he departed from 
him FOR A SEASON." 

Was the struggle ended forever? Had all mortal thot,» 
all materiality, all error been wholly overcome? If it had 
would there have been any of the human Jesus left? Would 
not the divine Christ have overcome then and there all that 
was left of the fleshy, mortal man and at once transported 
him into the realms of pure spirit? Surely the ascension would 
have been inevitable, for one wholly spiritual could not have 
retained a material, mortal form subject to the infirmities 
of the flesh. All the laws of spirit would deny such a possibil- 
ity. 

No, there was much left to do, much of understanding 
to gain, much of temptation to resist and what was more, 
it could not be done in a moment, or in an hour or in a single 
demonstration. Suffering humanity required many proofs 
of mind's supremacy over matter, many triumphs of Truth 
over error before it could understand even very vaguely its 
wholly mental origin and ultimate destination, its true rela- 
tionship to God. Slowly, one by one, must he master all 
the difficult problems. Slowly spiritual understanding must 
supplant material confusi-pn, slowly this understanding must 
be brot to bear on all human problems and result in ever 
newer and greater demonstrations^ until at last even death 

184 



and the grave are proved to be but a mortal belief and the 
risen Christ stands before us wholly triumphant — wholly 
spiritual — and the true man, the man of God's conception 
and reflection is revealed in His true Selfhood against which 
no power can prevail. 

Fall, 1918. 




185 



WHAT IS MOST WORTH WHILE 

What is most worth while! What a multitude of answers 
I hear! What a multitude of human voices all trying to solve 
that self -same, momentous question of the ages, "What is 
most worth while?" But many and varied as are the voices, 
so varied and so many are also the answers. I hear an inces- 
sant clamoring for wealth, for power, for ability, for fame; 
but alas! all these things, how selfish, how uncertain, how vain 
they are! Surely there must be something better, something 
more "worth while." High above the tumult I hear a voice, 
a voice low and gentle and reassuring, a voice that whispers, 
"The things which are seen are temporal; but the things which 
are not seen are eternal." 

For the things which are "not seen," then, let us strive. 
The things wh^ch are lowly, the things which are spiritual, 
the things which are eternal; for the faith that vani.sheth not 
in the darkness, for the hope that illumines the darkest night, 
for the love that "casteth out all fear," for that perfect peace 
that "passeth all understanding" and which the "world can 
neither give nor take away." 



186 



INDEX TO TITLES 

Alone 48 

All Day It Rained 57 

American Goldfish, The 39 

Among the Hills of Carver 58 

An Mein Geliebten 121 

Armageddon 128 

Aunty 143 

Autobiography, An 162 

Autumn Landscape, An 152 

Ballad of the Fisher's Boy 96 

Ballad of the Trees and the Master, A 53 

Battle of Life, The 26 

Behind the Window 6 

Children's Age, The 68 

Christian Mother, A 125 

Class Song of 1903 5 

Consecration 12 

Culture and Education 173 

Daybreak 16 

Dawn | , 15 

Dawn in Winter 93 

Der Einzige Stern 70 

Descriptive Sentences 156 

Drought, The 27 

Evening 30 

Evening Star at Christmas Time, The 92 

Evening Reverie 102 

Eventide 32 



189 



Faith, Hope, Love 66 

Faithful Service 37 

Father, I Thank Thee 10 

Forsaken 56 

Free Will 108 

From the Hilltop 80 

From the Spirit's Depth 20 

Heavenly Power, The 19 

Heart of Friendship, The 159 

Highland Winter 87 

H. T. S 131 

Huettlein Im Walde, Das 100 

If— Parody on Kipling's "If" 132 

If— But 47 

John Greenleaf Whittier 134 

Land of War, The 118 

Lest We Be True 40 

Let the Springtime In 64 

Life 31 

Little Black Speck 35 

Lonely 84 

Love 11 

Love 142 

Man of the Hour, The 67 

Menchenseele, Die 91 

Misunderstood 105 

My Life Is Like a Summer Rose 99 

My Litle Charge 85 

Nature's Moods 43 

Night and Morning 50 

Night Is Dark, The 73 

Night Is Over, The 83 

Ode to Friendship 21 

Ode to the Memory of My Father 75 

190 



Oh Changeless Undercurrent 55 

Oh, Come Away 36 

Oh Heart of Mine 95 

Oh World of Beauty 38 

Only An Elm Tree 154 

On Returning Home 41 

On Receiving a Bouquet of Pansies 

at the Eitel Hospital 98 

On Receiving a Bouquet of Tulips 

While in a Sick Room 107 

Our All-in-All 89 

Pilgrim's Right, My ' 109 

Prayer, A 126 

Prayer For A Friend,d A 25 

Reflected Light 48 

Rest 29 

Robin, Sing 38 

Sabbath, The 175 

Single Star, A 71 

Slaughtered Babyhood 116 

Slumber Village, The 72 

Small Village, A 145 

Snow, The 104 

So Much To Live For 42 

Song, A 44 

Sonnet 108 

Stars, The 13 

Strive On 49 

Summer Night, A 52 

Summer Sky, A 17 

Summer Song, A 18 

Temptations, The 177 

Thunder Storm, The 69 

To An Autumn Violet 51 

191 



To A Swallow at Twilight 82 

To Darling Baby 8 

To Fredericke On Her Twenty-Third Birthday 85 

To G— 122 

To My Father 74 

To My Love 123 

To Rev. A. W. B. On Hearing Of His Severe Illness.. 86 

To The American Goldfish 39 

To The Father of Waters 112 

To The First Robin 110 

Triolet 106 

Truth 124 

Trying to Sleep 158 

Twilight 33 

Unity of Souls 174 

Unusual Sunset, An 153 

Voice In The Wilderness, A 14 

Waiting 34 

Wehmut 91 

What Is Life Worth In The Twentieth Century? . . 169 

What Is Most Worth While? 186 

When Love Failed In Its Mission 9 

When Nature Speaks 171 

Winged Spirit, The 57 

Woman's Dress, A 149 



192 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES 

Afar down on the banks 58 

All day it rained 57 

All the hills stretched green 144 

And the wood-thrush of Essex 134 

Another day is breaking 15 

Another night is nearing 33 

A pilgrim child is fainting 9 

As I sit and gaze from my window 152 

As I think of that gentle child now 156 

A thousand times may God be praised 8 

Be thou as the lily, pure 7 

Cheerie, cheerie, chee ! 110 

"Child of my brain" 14 

Could Lanier possibly have 53 

Crushed was the faith that was 66 

Dear little room, at last, at last 26 

Didst thou hear the patter of the rain 103 

Didst thou hear the wild winds howling 69 

Dreamily, drowsily, drifting by 18 

Drip-drop-drip-drop 158 

Du Abendstern, du Adendstern 91 

Education is the development 173 

Endless, endless flowing river 55 

Everybody calls her "Aunty" 143 

Every pine tree is laden 28 

Father, I thank Thee that Thou 10 

Forsaken by all but the Father 56 

Freely Thou hast given 12 

193 



Free Will? Ah, yes, and yet Divine Will, too 108 

High in a tree 27 

Hush! Hark! Come, step softly 171 

I awoke in the dead of midnight 31 

1 feel the summer slipping 49 

I found a soul the other night 133 

I had a friend 106 

I heard the dawn advancing 44 

I paused in my pleasant ramble 145 

I knelt alone 71 

I sit alone at eventide 32 

I thot they would not find him 131 

I went into a bloody field 26 

Ich etch' allein 70 

Ich kenn' ein kleines Hutchen 100 

Ich Hebe dich so innerlich 121 

If all that rhymed 47 

If you can keep your peace 132 

If every star had 48 

Ihr Stern', was meint euer 91 

In those days came John, the Baptist 177 

It had been one of three, land 153 

It is not what the many do 40 

It was a little fisher's lad 96 

Just to be always doing 109 

Little black speck, so high 35 

Little dash of sunshine 39 

Lo, the last pale sickle of the moon 93 

Lo, what a blaze of wondrous peace is that 92 

Lone star, so peaceful is the quiet night 108 

Love is like a river 142 

Love is a passion, deep and strong 11 

Majestic lift the hills their hoary heads 87 

My life is like a summer rose 99 

194 



My little charge is fast asleep 85 

Not to be always wanting 37 

O, come away 36 

O gentle autumn violet 51 

O, hazy heights of summer sky 17 

O heart of mine, why dost thou 95 

O, is there none in all his wanderings 84 

O, to wait is weary, weary 34 

O world of beauty, who am I 38 

Oh, Father, tonight my heart is so weary 65 

Oh, for the luxury of somebody's love 11 

Oh, heart, I would that thou wert silent 21 

Oh, mother, with thy little flock 125 

Oh night in thy mystic splendor 57 

Oh, Thou Great Founder of Eternal Truths 89 

Oh, yes, the grass returns and the flowers 65 

Only a bit of narrow woods 6 

Open up the winder 64 

Our darling school is o'er at last 5 

Our hearts leap up when we 68 

Out in the cold and darkness alone 100 

Out of the ashen weight of Heave n 104 

Peerless and passionless 67 

Pretty pansies, dipped in dew 98 

Rest tired hands, rest 29 

Robin, robin in the treetop 38 

Sadly smiles the wan, descending sun 74 

Said the chief in iron tones 45 

Sink, sink, summer sun 30 

Slumber on, my babe, my babe 101 

Softly pillowed on the night's full rapture 50 

So free, so fair, so far 82 

So much to live for, so much to do 42 

Stillness, stillness, far and near 52 

195 



Thank God the night is over 83 

The little village lies in slumber 72 

The law that bid the wind be still 124 

The love thou bearest me, Love 123 

The melodies of the throbbing forest sink 48 

The mournful call of the cuckoo 43 

The mutest cry that ere ascended 19 

The night is dark, and far and near 73 

The poetry of the evening 102 

The Sabbath is a golden clasp 175 

The world is wide and wonderful 80 

There is a land where the rivers run red 118 

There's a rift in the eastern horizon 16 

They gleam, they glow, they glisten 13 

They tell me that I was born 162 

This elm stands alone 154 

Thou calmer of my keenest woes 112 

Thou dost call me, gentle Father 126 

Three hundred thousand babies dead? 116 

Too much, too much; at length the great heart broke 75 

Wearily the wind is sighing 20 

What is life in the Twentieth Century? 169 

What is most worth while 186 

When I return to my girlhood home 41 

When Mem'ry slings like ivy 85 

When we shall part in the valley 86 

Where is the seat of the terrible conflict 128 

Winifred never quite understood 159 

With a wish for a Merry Christmas 123} 

Yes, superficial tho it may seem 149 

Ye tulips, of yellow, ye visions 107 



196 






